Determin'd, she, to have a ball.
The monks have gather'd, mange 'n' all.
Last o' the red-hot mamas / Mass'd are the head-rot lamas.
The monks have gather'd, mange 'n' all.
Last o' the red-hot mamas / Mass'd are the head-rot lamas.
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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