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 our slow-
jam. It was in
the attic, which
was the only
groove we never
had. How were
we to know, as
we roamed the
steppes, that
we’d soon learn
to cloned? 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.
