I, Anagram

Crap is ill; that’s me, and I craps ill, or at least I used to. G, I am nil ill scrap, in my fullness; and I limp in slag, Carl. Larry says he doesn’t want to know who Carl is. I say he’s my back-door man. Poor Carl. Well, we don’t have a back door anyway, and Carl is merely four rearranged letters out of fifteen.

But I really am a small, ailing crip. That discovery made my day. I just had to share it.