Sundry word games are making me daft.
I pretend they’re improving my craft.
But I’ll play till I drop,
Though I know I should stop.
Now I’m drowning. Don’t laugh! Where’s my raft?
(Games Day falls each year on December 20th.)
Sundry word games are making me daft.
I pretend they’re improving my craft.
But I’ll play till I drop,
Though I know I should stop.
Now I’m drowning. Don’t laugh! Where’s my raft?
(Games Day falls each year on December 20th.)
It’s “National Puzzle Day,” which gives me a good excuse to post this limerick:
I never play Wordle in “hard mode.”
It feels like a feathered and tarred mode.
I would rather control
All my moves, on the whole.
It’s too bad they don’t offer a “bard mode.”
The WordleBot’s frequently callous
And when rating my play displays malice.
It shows frequent ill will;
Credits luck, rarely skill.
So it MUST have a miniscule phallus.
A Wordle solution in three
Brings me joy, so I’ll murmur: “Yay, me!”
Then I check with the Bot,
Who reviews what I got
And dispels any feelings of glee.
When I (rarely) solve Wordle in two,
All I get is a snide “Whoop Dee Doo!”
What’s it take for a pat
On the back from that rat?
This goes on too much longer? I’ll sue!
Frustration’s a puzzling norm
When in word games like Wordle you’re warm:
You need one letter more
And you’re pissed to the core;
You’ve guessed “story” and “stork,” but it’s “storm.”
Though he’s brilliant, my husband can’t spell.
And his less/fewer usage? Pell-mell!
But despite his word-hurdle,
He beats me at Wordle…
And kvells as I yell, “What fresh hell!”