In O-hio
The wind do blow
The dogs do bark and
trees do grow
And in the winter
falleth snow
Then Oh, how white be
O-hio.
Meanwhile, just half a mile from here, across a span of
three lanes and three fields, with no lefts and no rights, lies a creature of
sylphan aspect whose approbation I court at my peril. It’s guarded day and
night by a dragon with fiery hair and a sexy voice.
See? These are the depths to which the congenitally bored,
the terminally boring, and those devoid of any trace of personality are
dragged. I still think I might have died last week and nobody’s told me yet.
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