‘Tis comme il faut
that Wolfgang chose art.
(Which Wolf…? Amadh
A.
S. (“Wolf”) Sartre.)
So: Aunt Flo (we’re told she knows art)
crows, "Wolf’s glows -- his beaucoup beaux-arts --
most unlike Great-uncle Joe's art
--
calendars with 'ho's-in-hose art.”
(Asks each poser: “D'you suppose
art
apropos of Wolf's rondeaus art
blows away Joe’s status
quo's art…?)
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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