I didn’t read. Can someone summarize this into a poem for me?
Whispers of Blizzard’s secrets, claimed in oral lore,
“My wife’s boyfriend works there”—truth or nothing more.
An image dropped to back the claims,
But the proof dissolves when logic reclaims.
“Pezradar says nothing,” comes the skeptic’s scoff,
The accusation swings—no substance to walk itself off.
One asks, “Is he in jail?”—a joke or a jab,
Others latch on, mocking, pointing to a lab.
“PezRadar takes it in the pooper,” echoes loud,
Words turned crude, amid the online crowd.
Then amid the noise and chorus so uncouth,
One voice tired, “Can someone turn this into a poem, forsooth?”