That Anser'd frails tell rhyming tales
I evidence adduce.
I've best -- by fah! -- found Ma Mere l'Oye
(in English: Mother Goose).
But when Ma's reindeer's mane's too plain
and up it's look I'd spruce,
I mousse that mane as, once again,
I holler, "Goth 'er Moose!"
Moral #1:
Mother doesn't always know beast.
Moral #2:
Why doesn't my moose
sing as well as thy moose,
no matter how much I shell'd out for it.
Poet Poe pens nonsense verse. "...plus phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." Its 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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