Dr nun Watson, he jests rotund from feasted prey, in flight from cyst pruning. Dolts like him feed on grits. The escaping wren discos denim, a stunt lard-bled at duty’s end. You are free from his wall, pride, and junk. Ballet to your ford pronto and have a rare thing—a thigh in your face, nude to accept your smut. His wish was to jinx us (the new dolt) to sum that stunt. Your gun bang charged free punting in manners of brass rutting calves. The all-world cast panting his jingle (a trim "prick-gag" comes to mind). End your iffy simulation noting the bits and throbbing fists. You razz that jingle up full mast, a pubic foci, three seconds sleepless. Ship-rend the nun and his gob, the naked stud. Dunk and crack for them in the stands, ratty as nudes rotting. Never stepping from quarters, you rule so like Tut in hell, students waking in this jailer’s reaping hut, for fields of wrecked expertise. They are knotted together that your stalactite laced tenors ferment rinds, flies lining up in numbers and numbers. Three seconds of a century in ruptured tipsy scud with the product of their jailor. Perhaps you have not censored dread and dust with that wild crass shield. He pants rasping dry, scarred by you, the theater child, grandchild or reverent writer, held together and given to throbs. He tenderly typed one block of text and he’s spraying servo juice, the product of reassembled companions. Five days you considered casting his public ruts to light, considered what might master flies like. I highly approve your nippy report, a snarl.
(This is a spell-check poem based on a letter one of my professors wrote to Printing Services for me. It's not a usual spell check poem, as I didn't actually use spell-check, I mostly corrected the spellings myself, occasionally taking inspiration from the checker and adding to the syntax as I felt necessary. I'm so happy that it developed into an address to the professor herself. I'm going to read it and the original letter tonight at the Delta release party.)
