Oh, yeah, July of 2010, it was. As I recall, Lucy cared not at all for my:
Unbearable Lightness of Being
There once was a surgeon from Prague
whose morals were wispy and vague.
He made love to a bevy,
while his wife played the heavy;
he was light, she was somber, as fog.
With his ethical guidelines ablur,
since existence can never recur,
he would cheat and philander,
then confess it with candor;
it just didn’t make sense to demur.
Then he saw through his new way of seeing,
that man’s still a lumbering being.
He determined that fate had
got him truly Czech-mated—
was that cumbersome, or was it freeing?
Frank
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-- Frank
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