Well, my mouse must be taking a smoke break with the cool kids because she is no where to be found, and the frets and fusses are hungry. All I have to give them are semi-poems and self-pity. Hardly a meal. They'll soon turn on my creative core, hardly sated. That's really more of a centerpiece; delicate as an orchid and not made to be pawed by Doubt and his heavies. I am running out of poem peanuts, so if you see my writer voice, please send her home.
And tell her to stop smoking; her voice is hard enough to hear as it is.
Where's this Doubt guy, Mommy?
I have a heavy of my own I would like him to meet.