It happens each
election cycle:
some event so
potent psychol-
ogic’lly it
sways the unde-
cideds. stuff
they’re sure of Monday
sounds like
nonsense come the weekend –
strongly held
beliefs now reek and
truth’s no
longer truth but lies:
October’s here!
Surprise, surprise!
Poet Poe pens nonsense verse. "Plus...phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." Its gamut runs from spam to worse. The po'sy 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.)
