till men, with mirth, head north to Firth o’ Forth (or Forth o’ Firth),
till men of girth and noble birth, set sail and sally forth…
[Next adding I’m one visu’l rhyme: not ‘fourth’ but, rather, ‘worth.’]
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.)
Monday, October 7, 2019
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