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| Protestor with Boomerang |
“Don’t get all hot ‘n’ bother’d.
That’s
just pyrite,” colliers shout.
Fool’s
gold
The dealer takes two cards.
I raise. The undead cry, “We’re out!”
Ghouls
fold
Moral:
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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