Friday, September 04, 2015


How Will I Ever Type This One Up?

I used to have a
tundra. He was
miming a crime,

up with which I
shall not put.
Forty diseases

later (or was it
fourteen), we
found the slow-

jam. It was in
the attic, which
was the only

room we never
had. How were
we to know, as

we roamed the
steppes, that
we’d soon learn

to clone? Daddy
lost all of his gold.
The bank was

hard up. “Knock,
knock!” “Who’s
there?” “Fort

Knox,” says the
fox to the nuc-
lear hologram.