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In the glimmer-gloom glade of the Glotzberry Tree, Where the flumplebees flutter from B to the Bee, There lived a small fellow named Fizzle McFoon Who whistled at waffles and howled at the moon.

Now Fizzle McFoon had a hat with a horn That tooted at Tuesdays and yodeled at morn, And under that hat (which was lavender-striped) Lived seventeen thoughts that were never quite ripe.

He kept them in jars made of jelly and jam, And labeled them “Maybe” and “Possibly Ham,” And sometimes at breakfast (or maybe at three) He’d open a jar and let out a “WHEEE!”

For thoughts that are jarred in a gelatin glaze Will wiggle and wobble in curious ways. They bounce like a blibber on buttered-up toast Or hum like a humbug who’s haunting a ghost.

Now down in the valley of Varmint Von Vee

does this mean, oh the jean queen, that from work or from home, I can add posts from my phone?