"Extend your weapon. Draw a
bead.
For
justice long denied you'd
bid."
Thus
Fortune, in a dream, me
bade.
"He
must not live to die in
bed,
who
architects so beaucoup
bad.
Injustice must
no longer
bide.
A
thousand dimples to his
bod
you'll introduce
with shot of
bird.
Pretend
you're Hoppy (William
Boyd.)"
So
spoke Dame Fortune, brazen
bawd.
"You
be da trigger, -sman (Om-
bud-),
and do
as my predictions
bode."
Baboom! Baboom!
Baboom! Ba-
boom!
Baboom! Baboom!
Baboom! Ba-
boom!
Baboom! Baboom! (Nor no one
boo'd.)
Uly Poe pens dogg'rel verse. "Such phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." The 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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