"Lo, son, ah, go up the vent" My coy lord's jibe came. "Or use the crane" (an alternative gibe). But I heard nits and tics And didn't trust the frame. "Nay! My opal jowl must ripen Before my wet sword greets the gore. Thinker's acts performed on trays in the glen Care little for the mane of men While sax and oboes qietly say "Hi". FIN
Today, meek Jo (envying winer) Mile through fog and through shire Devouring tex and taco, Hit up Joe. "Write 'QI, ZA, UT, ED, PO', ta" Few Joes would say no. Rib and abdomens agreed, Like a zip in a rut. In dud Lyon's pearl the carer rolls By ka and through quire Into sunset afar. Exo.
