Here is today's seasonal hymn.
Everybody, sing!
Everybody, sing!
"Lettuce...? No! Lettuce...? No!
Lettuce...? No!"
Uly Poe pens dogg'rel verse. "Such phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." The gamut runs from spam to worse. The matter posted...? Poe's diverse -- most, postcards from his universe, replies to grudges he must nurse. My summary...? Let me be terse: a mitzva, mostly. (Not a curse.)
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