It's the silly season. Killer hamsters, alien abductions, big dumb movies at the cineplex. That time of year when newsmakers and troublemakers take their vacations, forcing journalists to fill the spaces between the ads with matters of profound inconsequence.
At least that's my excuse for reprinting Morris Bishop's poem "The Naughty Preposition":
I lately lost a preposition:
It hid, I thought, beneath my chair.
And angrily I cried: "Perdition!
Up from out of in under there!"
Correctness is my vade mecum,
And straggling phrases I abhor;
And yet I wondered: "What should he come
Up from out of in under for?"
And Bishop's delightful train of terminal prepositions takes us directly to some phony rules of writing--including that old bugaboo about never ending a sentence with a preposition. Enjoy your summer holidays!
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