Rrrk....excuz typo cuz I am typin wit my. beak aN I not vry goOd at spelin. liz an Laura r stuc up a. tree an i am takin over tis magzine. IM changin te name to, Da Payapa, an its gonna be AlL ABUT FRUIT! YEAH, FRUIT! AND CIGARS! Non of tis POOT-TREE stuff! PAPAYAS...oh tey git down frm tree...hold on.
Liz: Laura, why is there an empty cage in the corner of Toucan Headquarters?
Laura: Didn't you open it? I thought you were cleaning our the cage of our mascot?
Liz: Not even I would be THAT irresponsible AS to leave it open...
(as a look of dawning comprehension flashes across their faces, they receive extremely hard pecks on the backs of their heads, and are buffeted by a set of short black wings)
Da PAPAYA! Da PAPAYA OF TE WEEK!
L and L: OH SNAP.
Yes, well, Happy April Fools, everyone (furiously brushing back hovering Toucan), and in celebration have an appropriately surreal poem by a past and future contributor, Michael Cluff. We particularly like the dromedaries. And the impalas. But at this moment, as you can imagine, we are not terribly fond of Toucans and hoping that the "showers of sanity" return soon. Perhaps we SHOULD change our name to the Papay--err, the IMPALA, just to teach this bratty bird a lesson. We--oh, gross, NOT on the KEYBOARD!....
Hyding
by Michael Cluff
Nip off the nectar
dispose of the dromedaries
all is in vitro
until the showers
of sanity return.
An aerial antic
the sky remains a threatening slate
but it neither glances left or right
from such an atmospheric stance.
The impalas and wolverines
both endured endless
though several habitats
and hospitalities apart.
The drizzle off shifting ponds
reflects the rocks of hard decision
a scientist in a bow tie and wingtips
all along isolated
can commit
on a transient sphere
made by any means.
WHAT? TIS IS NO APRUL FOOLS JOK! DA PAPAYA! DA PAPAYA OF DA WEEK!
Laura: Oh god, he's found CAPS LOCK. RUN!!!!
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