Hacking of the server blipped this away but we’re back:
At the station on the air.
Reindeer hat and all,

The night before Christmas, all through the nation
Not a poet was paid cash, not even at this station.
Poet stockings were hung over their sofas with hope,
For Nelson Ball or Ann Carson, not soap-on-a-rope.
Thammavongsa was lodged deep in her albums,
michael e casteels was musing vispo amalgams.

Read the rest at the BookThug blog

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