THE CATARACTS

Surely it is a jest of the veriest kind!

Sing us another jumbled old ditty,

Calliope in the garage of the Watergate Hotel!

And do please keep us abreast of developments...

I promise not yet to return to me

Or the horse I, skittish, rode in on:

A nightmare sends Jon to the nurse's station, whereupon he will be rebuffed,

And told crankily that he may not ruin

Another gaspworthy installment

Of 'Barely Breathing Coeds.' Rush, or be left behind!

The scrubs have no use for your wit, Jon, you dire witch...

[NOTE: It rains, it pours, and so my cup runneth over. Apologies to Jolene and her radical fun bags, but I've been in a terribly hot, indignant mood. Anyway, I'm toying with the notion, in light of this stalled out dummy poem, to take a hiatus. Or something more drastic. I am delicate, temperamental, festive, funny, and fragile - I don't know how much more chicanery I can tolerate!!!]