Whose dream is of lobsters? He'll buckle to mobsters.
Whose dream is of cheese? She'll be cropp'd at the knees.
Whose dream is of eggs gets prosthetics. (Or pegs.)
Whose dream is of bread? He's smack'd upside the head.
Whose dream is of wine? She'll be pickl'd in brine.
Whose dream is of trout? He gets punch'd in the mout.’
But the dreamers whose dreams are of wedgemussel shells
must prepare for subjection to all
sorts of hells.
Uly Poe pens dogg'rel verse. "'Tis fun," hums Uly, "I disburse." The gamut runs from bad to worse. The matter treated...? Quite diverse -- most, postcards from his universe, replies to grudges he must nurse. My summary...? Let me be terse: a blessing largely. (Not a curse.)
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