As the season ensues, my friends, I too am ill. I cough, I suffer, I cancel. I otc, I herbal, I chicken soup. I intend to be well by Halloween, my favorite holiday. Here is a jack-o-lantern I scalpeled into being.
And by election day, my least favorite holiday, at least in this last decade. Here I depict the concern of my friends and myself.
I feel at the moment like the sweat on the brow of the squire’s squire’s squire, should ever there be empire sufficiently Byzantine as to have one, which of course, there is, and has been, and grace of nature, shall be.
The whales, I see, in my ailing drear, are smarter than we, and will smite us.
Whales get their due in fiction but in poetry it’s all tigers and birds. It is easy to see why. Here is a tiger with whom I recently sympathized.
Does the beast yet burn bright? Despite?
