Hankered after spirits Scotchy.
(Barring that, some Nippon sake).
Sunday! Closed! He knew a gaucho,
Macho, Sunday-selling nachos.
Fibonacci’s macho gaucho nachos.
Henry 8’s wife was lawn bowling.
Henry Percy saw, eyes rolling.
“Did he see more?” asked Jane Seymour.
“You may lose your head, Boleyn!”
A question that’s novelly dry, sir:
Is the “s” to be soft in T. Dreiser?
Or should it be “z”?
Conundrum to me
That spurs me to drink down Budweiser.
An eft. An inept eft.
Oft he coughed.
He slipped. He tripped.
He clipped his lip, and so it’s ripped.
The eft, it quipped, “I think I’m effed.”
I had hired a brokerage.
Now I’m only broker. Rage!
Liked to tease.
Crept upon Diogenes.
“Cynic! Down! Upon thy knees!
“Douse thy lantern, for thou sees
“An honest man, I, Socrates.”