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Tuesday, February 18, 2020

Spartan Spoonin'

Go tell the Spartans, 
“Boys, your battle plaids lay ready.
Nowt's left to do 
but to coat them kilts with jam."
So: gel the tartans! 
(Wow! 'Tis leavin’ me unsteady,
all this marmalade. Are you light-headed…?
Yowza! I sure am.)
     Moral:
Race war…? No, Moor!

Of Pontiffs, Personas and Potables: A Rhyme Spree

Each verse in the  poem  below selects  from two to four  beverages ("pick'd  poisons"), the  last- mentioned of which  is alw...