Tis right lacking suspense that he sprays this dune,
then wipes the fever with his caustic hankie.
You bother skimpies, bopping dazzlegrim a forked
millipede smile, swat what! No gables turned
us under tickle what fuzz broads sip, Gallantis Hoaglunk,
ophidiophobia paper gruntlets stacked into the castle—
just signing the name. What makes one is praxis,
innumerable dilly, scraping fangs across this
piddling neck of Hotland.
Yours ever,
BD
