From a Traveling Art Salesman

Dear W,

I dub you a pundit of puns.
Your pungent writing packs a punch
And punctuates my punishing role
That punctures out my very sole.
With stakes so high, I have no beef
With well-done cuts from masterchief.
It’s rare now, but they’d leave me raw
When I couldn’t follow Murphy’s Law.
Your play on words then works on me
As if it is origami
With manifold advantages:
1. A compass for my lost wages
To circle round and find my purse;
2. A ghazal couplet so di-verse;
3. A gentle cup of charity
For one who has no proper tea;
4. Exciting whys of algebra,
Algorithms, et cetera.
My monkey mind needs husbandry,
Punctilious buffoonery,
So thanks for how your punctual jokes
Arrest me like a painter’s strokes.

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