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Ah, Sprrr-ing!
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I'll finish the poem in a minute, but first I have to put on five more sweaters, go break up the ice in the chicken waterer, and saw up another armload of scrap wood for the fire.
Where was I? Pittsburgh, calzone. You know, as much as I'd love to only write about out-of-town restaurants now, by way of being nutty, I just
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"Meteorillogically, I had never seen anything like it."
Poetry is a sport. A delicious sport.
Rollin out the red carpet in Hollywood, and eating it up at Sabina's Restaurant
