In Which paleo Finds The Muse Of Poetry

I saw my psychic this morning. I was hoping to find my Grannie Erma's famed cache of filberts, as I'm a bit peckish. (Not especially in a mood to drive to Wisconsin, but then, my decision making goes to hell when I need to suck down some nuts.)

Lo and begoddamhold, I inhabited the thrice virginal Brisket (h/t Tengrain's never-out-of-the-shrinkwrap menagerie of loonies) Palin. 

She was reflective, diarizing, having Tripp help her with her multiplication tables. But she then, mindlessly doodling, wrote this:

The Northern Lights shine
Above my ankles, glowing
Fuck, is he done yet?

Wow. I... Beautiful.

And then I bought some Combos.