Those EPA's backs?
Lackin' spine.
They fail to beat back
Frackenstein,
a freakin’
fiend – the
frackin’ kind.
Whose freakin’
field’s Frack
frackin’? Mine!
No matter how I
tack ‘n’ whine,
Scott’s lackies
back him
(claque o’
swine!).
Those hacks attack. Their
knacks?
Refined:
my taps drip
frappes of
blacken'd
brine.
Still, do I plan to
slacken? Nein!
“What hey!” say they. “Re-
lax! Some wine…?”
But when I fight...or
crack 'n' pine,
I’m smacked -- redacted
back in line.
(All's gone to
ru’n 'n’
wrack, in fine.)
Poet Poe pens nonsense verse. "...plus phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." Its gamut runs from spam to worse. The matter posted...? Poe's diverse -- most, postcards from his universe, replies to grudges he must nurse. My summary...? Let me be terse: a mitzva, mostly. (Not a curse.)
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Rev'd Spooner Meets Rev'd Carroll
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