His
nous is fake.
(His
gnus…?
Fake
too, folks feel.)
Now
he, with
(thanks
to Yiddish kin)
fake
“…nu…?”s
may daily deal.
Still,
we’ll make sure,
impeachin’ him,
the
douche’s noose
is
real.
"Reader, I married him." So opens the last chapter of Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre . Attempting to piggyback on the nove...