His…? Bacon and eggs.
The tortured’s plea: “Just let me die.”
He’s achin’… and begs.
Moral:
For me…? Decaf -- but just a half.
Poet Poe pens nonsense verse. "Plus...phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." Its gamut runs from spam to worse. The po'sy 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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