Pompous possom, in the glossy tide-riden, storm tossed, bone of the moon, forbidden,
Washington, D.C., clearly a swamp, a delicate swamp, as was Martha, when big boy George, carrying girth, went down to earth, kissing her, during mass transit, on her corn-shock bridal bed,
She was, a widow giving, of her heart and soul, all kinds of property, to feel that great steel, that soul doddering solemn, romantic drifter coughing, much as, when on a
Storm-tossed night, she went shining bright, she saw the pumpkin, big and bright, and she loved a soul, it glowed, and Martha, bless her plum, flowering plum, gave a shite,
Pompous possom!
Spam of Human Affection 
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