Jeff Blackman

You admire me for my talent but regularly remark how callipygian I am. Funny thing is I'm lethophobic, so lie to me about Heaven and I might laugh myself to death; that'd be an epitaph alright.

You reduce me to slubberdegulliousness. There's a curmuring coming from the bowels of our home, and I'd hate to hugger-mugger but I can't help it. I still groak at functions but you, you've gotten better; you've had to. You only get the crapulousness when you've eaten too much richness—I get it random Thursdays when I've let a Wednesday come down on me like the lumming. That water bottle of yours with the dent looked like it would sit on my tombstone; it exhibited resistentialism. Thank you for replacing it.

Listen: this poem is a mere quockerwodger. I know I've been a cockulorum but I can't stammer this brabble. You'd be grumpish too if you knew what I knew. I just want to shout it into now, "I know!" I know, I know you're totally jargogled but believe me: the word apricity—as in, the sun's warmth on a cold day—is only obsolete because we got tired of telling twattlers to shut up and conceded to the small talk, conceded, yeah, "It sure is cold for such a sunny day."

You've been gorgonized by me, my dear. I know I am a total snoutfair and you think you're a jollux, but that's a mean thing to think. Before you I had elflocks and lamented, "Yet?" I pretended I could accomplish something in the twitter-light but by then the day was over. I used to go out lunting down by the Rideau or no, no — that's a lie: you lunt with a pipe and I skipped out with a joint. Everything else is true, though, and that my dear is monsterful. I'm committed, just as anyone is when they finish the hot part and enter the cold. Curglaff!

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