The Walrus and the Ombudsman
Suspend their morning jog.
“You lag, Milord,” the Walrus roar'd.
"You've slow'd us to a slog."
“You're Dynamo,” quoth Señor O.
“Me…?
I'm El Underdog.”
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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