Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we
propose to posit prose poetry,
forming forms of continuous connectivity
to communicate considerable
contemplative reflectivity.

Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you'll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft we've wrought, and revealed thusly;
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.

Gospel of Mary

Mary had a little lamb, 
a mutton chop. Green eggs and ham, 
made famous by Suess's guy, Sam, 
are not the same. They're not the damn 

little lamb miss Mary ate. 
No hot damn ham was on her plate.
So, fairly here I must relate 
the final form of Mary's fate. 

The lamb she ate was 'Beatitude'. 
She gave herself the latitude 
to elevate her attitude 
for happy endings. That's it, dude. 

Mary did have a little lamb, which is 
suggestive of her having ingested sandwiches. 
Thus mutton-filled, gluttonous Mary was sated;
appetite abated; lambchop well masticated.