RT here, reporting for PT, from the ease of Saturday morn,
Reflecting upon Eloo's word of thanks in this season of harvest corn.
To all the Canadian breds that write in our midst,
We offer you all our Thanksgiving wish.
Out of the British Mist, a ghostly story appeared,
A Gentle Lady of Upton, that many a soul has feared.
I can feel her pale presence, as she walks through his words,
Like the haunting of owls and ravenous birds.
She wades through darkness, so Neko so beautifully writes,
In search of colors, on her mystical flights.
On dove feather clouds, her pen does do trace,
The life of the human in heavenly grace.
Jack London Reborn, if truth be told,
When one reads of the Sargent, a canine so bold.
It's there in the Mage, this call of the wild,
Burndtree's classic would be child.
Somehow I've lived in the Redneck Messiah,
A story of two who are quite far from fine-uh,
I must confess just what the turth is,
It's the great work of Archi-Theuthis.
With most of us reading, and not many writing,
There are too many more, today I'll be citing,
But I am hoping that tomorrow, another I'll see,
Continuing the work of BFD's PT.