Poet Poe pens nonsense verse. "Plus...phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." Its gamut runs from spam to worse. The po'sy 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.)
Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces...
...three Harpwig FC wheels (NG) 'n' three-foot Cucu beetles (NG)...
...two strikers and a goalie from the recently relegated Yorkshire football club and several exceedingly tall insects imported from Amazonia -- and nary a one of 'em any good...
Now is the winter of our discontent...
...wet feet, no oro sun, thin cows in dirt...
...and my damn back is killin' me.
