gja Oh Oscar, how is it that you have not been blathed here before?

Oh goodness, oh me? Could it be that these lovers of words fell wobbly on knees before you? Were they unfit to lace you patent leather broges?
Was it the stippled oak desk? Was it the striped wall paper? Was it fear of you cranky mother?

My goodness, why me?

A question perhaps, a double, nay treble entendre?

You spitefull lover, you boundless lying fiend. You comforter. You first resort. You quotable, gorgeous wordsmith.

What would you make of this world we live in?
Knows What Wilde Would Write He would say, "Fiddle sticks!" and eat a cucumber sandwich. 080201
what's it to you?
who go