Weepy woppy, teary tyrolese

There once was a singer from Bremen
Who bore a cup he kept his phlegm in.
When asked, "Why the jar
Of yellow catarrh?"
He coughed, "It works better than lemon."

[n.b., some singers use tea with lemon to lubricate their throats.]

There once was a builder in Krakow
Who murdered his wife with a backhoe.
She made him attack,
For though he's named Jack,
She insisted on calling him Jack-o.

A dam in the area is nearing collapse. Apparently grit trapped underneath the dam has been gradually boring tunnels through it, one grain of earthen dam at a time. It could go any minute, or not at all. They will have to drain the reservoir to fix it. I feel a sensual unease as I think of the corruption of the dam in its pitch-black depths, its rusted and collapsing pipes, its water-logged core, of the slimy empty flats that will sit stinking all around the workmen slogging through knee-high mud and sludge. If it wouldn't kill and destroy, I would love the Long Tom River to just wash it away. Without any warning, without any fanfare, that lump of dirt and rust could just slide into oblivion.

This keeps me company.