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| "H is for 'H'!" |
No
taste, no smell...
nor none can tell
its hue. (Is't yel-
low stuff...?)
As H it's known.
(This table's shown:
the world can't own
enough.)
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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