Back to B.C. by Johnny Hart for February 11, 2016

First poem

he’s a poet and doesn’t know it

Now that’s the right kind of poem for Wiley!

There once was a man from LenoreWhose mouth was wide as a door.While attempting to grin,He slipped and fell in,And he laid inside out on the floor…

A pearl of a poem!

Each night father fills me with dreadAs he sits at the end of my bed.I’d not mind that he speaksIn gibbers and squeaks,But for 17 years he’s been dead. — Edward Gorey