I met three old men in a milieu.
I ask: did you get your meals?
The first said: mettle.
The second said: miles to go.
The third said: mill on it.
I say: mirable dictu to you too!
One pipes: get a job.
Another quandaries.
The third says: think of Bob,
as in 'What about Bob?'
I say of Job, he didn't quit;
nor did he spit upon the name,
but rose from ashen to fame.
Someone states: tarry a little.
I reply: 'neither jot nor tittle' and
whoever can break this riddle,
trees be watered with his spittle!
Maybe more; maybe less to test:
big oil must be put to rest lest
a murky wave crest upon cysts
of child barren women on a list.
A twisted and gnarled wrist
should lend a gist to the pissed-
off seated, old men and reality!
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