WUNA, O, WUNA
Below is a poem distributed on the WUNA listserv
By Jeff Unger
What’s that noise, what’s that smell?
Let’s ask WUNA, I can’t tell.
Feral cats? City rats? Police training? (Rat-a-tat.)
Traffic circles, bike lanes, poop,
WUNA’s always got the scoop …
Want a mattress? Need an herb?
They’re on the street, friend, at the curb.
Help! Someone’s snatched my front-porch pumpkin,
Please don’t accuse a country bumpkin.
We know not to cast aspersions –
Racial, ethnic, gender versions.
All are equal, free to post,
On any topic, coast to coast.
“Hey, I need a good proctologist,”
(Seamstress, painter, or geologist).
The questions come from near and far
(“Where might I find some Arctic char?”)
Few topics ever seem verboten:
There’s Carle and Wise and concealed totin’;
Taxes, Prussing, Steve Salaita,
On-list, off-list, day and nighta.
Discussions come, discussions go
Sometimes come back – AGAIN? – oh, no.
But in the end, despite its quirks,
We love our WUNA and its perks.