Woman Speaks Only in Rhymes: Claims Cursed by Disgruntled Poet!

Just when you thought you’d seen it all, prepare to twist your tongue and turn your wits, for we have uncovered a bemusing tale of verse and vexation that’ll leave you chuckling and charmed. Meet Miranda Stanzalot, a dashing dame from Delaware, who now intelligibly interacts only in rhymes, claiming to be cursed by a disgruntled poet!

Miranda once was as ordinary as they come, lauded for her linguistic finesse, but never in verse. However, one fateful night, she had an odd encounter with a local poet – the brooding, disheveled, and universally disregarded poet, Van Winklewords. Insulting his ‘ham-fisted haikus’, ‘lousy limericks’, and ‘poorly constructed pentameter’, left her suffering his unique revenge.

Now every word from Miranda’s mellifluous mouth materializes masterfully in rhyme. “Trapped in trap, can’t clap or nap,” she lamented, insinuating her plight impishly. Our marveled journalist stammering, she added, “No sham, ma’am. Not a scam or a flam.” Truly, a piquant pickle of a predicament!

Away from the rhyme-stricken siren, we meandered looking for the mysterious maven of rhymed misery, the notorious Van Winklewords. The forlorn poet, in his cozy cottage piled high with dusty tomes and parchment, roared with laughter at our inquiries. “Never fear, for I merely held a mirror to her jeer! What goes around comes around, clear,” he exclaimed, his twinkling eyes revealing his enjoyment of this poetic justice.

What follows is a kooky lifestyle Miranda leads – a life through the looking glass, but not governed by laws of physics, but of prosody. Visiting the grocer’s, she declares, “A loaf of bread, for my head, not lead, or I am dead!” Drawing curious glances at the park, she hums, “Pretty lark, starts its arc, from dawn to dark.”

Help, however, is at hand as Prof. Ronnie Rhyme-a-lot, a noted prosodic academic and a self-proclaimed expert in ‘poetic possession’, is on the case. Aiming to help the lady lost in linguistics, he declared, “Misery in meter, what could be neater? But fear not, for we’ll beat her!” The professor plans to use a mix of linguistic technology and Somerset sheep’s wool to draw out the curse. Odd, but hey, it’s poetic science!

One cannot disregard the staple of our society – the ever-vocal, opinion-strong crowd at local pubs. Monty Pints-a-lot, a local, remarked over his pint, “Never a bore, not a chore, makes you explore, always something more. She’s our own metaphorical folklore!”

In the end, it is an outlandish, slightly puzzling dilemma Miranda finds herself in – a quagmire of quatrains, if you will. Is it a curse? Or is it a blessing clothed as one? Few dine on dilemmas as deliciously diverse as this. But one thing’s for sure, the dialogue around town has decidedly become more daring and delightfully rhythmic.

To serenade you in conclusion, we quote Miranda, speaking to a curious crowd in town last noon: “Cursed in verse, could be worse. Could be mute, or in a hearse. Now I cruise, in rhythmic universe!” Indeed, this tale of rhymed rhetoric is a peculiar eight-wonder, leaving us ponder if we’re all, after all, players under a bard’s thunder.