And about 35 seconds of Up Yours, Mister in the middle, there.
You’ll know it when you get to it.
_________________
Even More Psychosis-Inducing Than The Original
Look at him, sitting there all Poe-faced . . .
oooooooooOOOOOooooooooo
I’m Just Saying
oooooooooOOOOOooooooooo
This Is For the Patron . . .
. . . who called the other day to inform us that taxpayer’s hard-earned money would be better spent in supplying free laptops and city-wide Wi-Fi to citizens than on libraries and the salary they pay me for sitting on my rump all day, reading trashy novels.
Good luck to you, sir.
oooooooooOOOOOooooooooo
Speaking of Passive-Aggressive . . .
Could someone please explain this poem to me?
Why is the wheelbarrow so crucial?
Are the chickens significant or just co-dependent?
Is the rain metaphor or meaningless?
WHAT?!
People have been reading and debating this poem for over fifty years just because we can’t suss out the—
Oh.
Well-played Mr. Williams.
Well played.
oooooooooOOOOOooooooooo
Still a Better Romance Than . . .
. . . you know.
Alternative Title: “Consent is not a grey area.”
Pun grimly intended.
(Thanks, Helen—you rock!)
oooooooooOOOOOooooooooo
The Last Line Sells It
We can only do so much, Mr. Pip.
I kid. Scroobius Pip is one hell of a performance poet, I just can’t share most of his stuff here until my kids are old enough to know when not to recite his lyrics in public.
(thanks, Cha-Cha!)
Earful of Cider 