This is not some rhymer’s propaganda. Think of it as a back-room memoranda. You want corny. But you’re horny. You have editor rights, so says Miranda.
Better the Hippocratic oath than the above decree. Must have a few unloved editors feeling hungry. Leftover custard? Or kangaroo stew? Can’t the doctor offer a little something from the Mary Jane tree?
So last month’s words caused a publishing cyclone? Yet not a single editor was able to get blown. How very sad. Where was Dad? Somewhere in Portugal, nads on the throne?
Hope you’ll publish this; the limerick’s benign. The form’s still sexy, but old and on the decline. Stay aroused. Where editors housed. Just do what you do and don’t think to resign.
