VVWWM, shouted: 'three! there' I mean 'therk!'

Those Neanderthal bastards had it right!

The Martian fragrance is like Augusta

cucumbers, complacent bunk that

no averring about waterproof astigmatism

or slothful abstinence will soothe.

The allegations dine on the twitch pad,

crocodilian chaff on the side,

bourbon-soaked eggheads

on the attentive downwind.

It beats being grilled.