Rudyard Kipling's concubine.
Crone's whetstone nears Ursine line.
A rag, a bone, a hank of hair / A hag, a hone, a rank of bear
Crone's whetstone nears Ursine line.
A rag, a bone, a hank of hair / A hag, a hone, a rank of bear
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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