Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

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Zolar the Inet God
(after Edgar Allan Poe's "The Angel of the Odd") It was a tidy day and I sat, replete, under vellux blankets. Sadly, my tea was weak, the bottle of cinnamon whiskey tantalizingly low, and my feet swelling above my anklets. So I was snippy one might say, zippy, flipping with zee... from one screen to the next, oops, forgot! Poor Usain Bolt! Yes, I took it out upon him. Dressed him first in bouncy hearts cruel, I admit, and then purposefully fried him, let him float, banged him, tripped him, let the sloth dine, and let out a fart. Crude, I admit. Let's blame it on the tea, shall we? "I say not." I sat up. Who had spoken to little old me, an old lady too weak for any great villian with a booming voice. I blew out my snot, found my glasses and good grief! The speaker made of teak. Pseudo teak, my stereo a bit old. But leaning against the wall fruity-kins wearing leotards when he should not, the belly like a spiked watermelon. I admit I considered a sip at neck gall but got turned off by papaya thighs, arms turned banana jelly. Who are you, I squeaked, smushing low to hide like a flea. "Zolar, the Inet God. Say, I wonder, are you a high roller?" No, no, said I. No bingo, no slots, no high stake poker, just see... "See? I see far too well. You let my buddy Usain go polar." Tee hee. Just, um, fun and games. How about a nice slushy? Yes, I admit it. With such as he, I couldn't help but imagine giving a blender whirr, a smash and splash, sort of plushy. With glee whee, off went vellux and I set to the kitchen. The rum was old and watery, the vodka scummy at collar and all went crash. Imagine the horror if you will, foot rot in my fine spirits? My hoover sucked it without bother and when I examined residue, found crumbs, hairs and a dot of mushy raisins. So I googled on my phone with askance how purify spirits? Zolar suggested kindly, "Try a colander." A genius of the mash, a nonpariel of the objective chance. My mind turned to such grater things I made my first blunder. Who'd believe a fresh market reject could move with alacrity I swung a hammer, missed his head, slipped on the slick floor. The recoil hit my head, and I bled red vintage, singing a ditty, Oh me, oh my. I'm gonna cry, while Zolar went out the door. Not leaving my just desserts to chance, I slipped and slithered rubbed my foot rot, and hopped after him, butcher knife in hand. A beep from my iPhone and away he dodged, while I dithered leading me, up, up and out to where it rained to beat the band. It hit me then, just get close enough to hug Zolar, then push he must have read my mind because he darted and I flew head over heels, but thankfully over a branch like a lush who did okay on the acrobatic bars, hair tangling in dew covered maple leaves and my dismount worthy of a ten. I mucked toward my door, my bare feet covered with mud I opened the door, except it was locked, no window open. I checked my pockets, found a lighter, snapped, a dud. No phone, can you imagine? Even Usain Bolt wouldn't recover such blasphemy as rain, muck, and maniac fruit without zen. I now had an axe to grind and a green house to uncover. My thirst now absurd, my mind stuck on might have been I raged, thrashed through cabinets, seeking a bottle once stored and found it. Amen. I uncapped it, took a deep swallow Hot. Hot, hot! Immediately I upchucked, help me I implored to the God of the Inet, Oh Zolar, call 911, don't let me wallow It's cold, wet, dark and mucky, and here I'm all upchucky I pounded on doors, they'd open, snap a flash then close oh, woe, woe. I clutched my head, my throat, I'm ever so unlucky to wish to slip into slushy and end up posted before repose. A siren in the night grew and grew, then flashed beside me a voice said, "Ma'am? Can you hold it right there, put your hands overhead?" Sure, but bladder being bad I couldn't stop my wee wee from dribbling down my leg, then my feet slipped unplanned. That's how the news pictured me, along with neighborhood postings, feet all asply, a phew of urine and of whiskey, my hair filled with leaves, eyes black and blue, and would you believe it? My hand rests on watermelon, me unable to flee. I never go near the iNet, never search out or bash Usain Bolt. The night of Zolar in mind, I even gave up cinnamon whiskey. Because a fruit in hand is better than an axe to grind or a volt from lightning, with tush grounded and no vellux to cover me.
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