Alas, Horatio failed to bring suitable pickles to the dumpster behind the Benbrook library, and he did not include any poetry magazines.
Only the left half of my body will be released at this time, by the bad poetry bats. I am being held half on a roof, bound and chained, and half off the roof, dangling in the air.
Supposedly this is what the bats refer to as “poetic justice”. I do not find it poetic, just, or even remotely pleasant.
I hope this temporary pickle poem problem will be resolved by Horatio, before I am forced to endure more bad poetry justice.