"Some days my minde plays tricks on me..." Vu and Other Dejas: A Constrained Alphabet

Some days my mind plays tricks on me.

Such stuff seems nothing new.
Your mind plays tricks on you as well.
It's labeled déjà vu.

Like when 'twould seem, as in a dream,
I’ve bid “Bis bald!” to you
not once or twice but thrice times thrice:
I’m having dej’ adieu.

Or, as when craving late-night nosh –
Dovedale at ten till two -- 
I chew, encore, that goo once more:
I’m having deja bleu.

Whence ousts of Oman’s oligarchs,
pols' purges in Peru?
Occurred these turdes de force before?
Hooray for deja coup.

I reckon second song lines 
from a second kangaroo
should sound…well. sound. They’re, I’ll be bound,
my deja didg’ridoo. 

One rhyme sings, “Mary had a lamb.”
One claims she’s had a few.
That rhymer must imagine Mary's
having deja ewe. 

My forehead’s hot. The runs have got
me running to the loo.
I retch. And then I retch again.
I’m having deja flu. 

More wildebeests? (Oh, well: at least
it’s not more caribou.)
Their name is Boer. They’re back once more:
I’m having deja gnu.

Here’s Hef. There’s Laurie.
Not to worry: Masekela, too,
twice viewed with Grant. Twin sightings can’t 
be less than deja Hugh. 

I’ve never lent ye. Borrowed? Plenty. 
One loan’s wa-a-a-ay past due.
I own I’ve owed an ample load.
It’s deja I.O.U. 

These games I’ve played before: today’d
be not my grande debut.
I’ve jumped. I’ve soared. I’ve shot. I’ve scored.
I’m having deja jeux.

This scene repeats: I’ve seen these sheets,
these kindled crosses, too.
Supremacy? Hyperbole:
I’m having deja Ku.

Again: green stalls. Graffiti’d walls.
Green urinals. Green poo.
Familiar Gents, with sim’lar scents.
I’m having deja loo.

Like Burgess, G., I fail to see 
plum cows. (My bovines? Blue.)
But, were I to, I’d croon, “So, nu?
What’s this? More deja moo?” 

I’m kibitzing. I’m chalisching.
And, although not a Jew,
I’ve felt like “thisht” before: farmisht.
Oy vay! ‘Tis deja! Nu?

I’ve mourned in morning rooms before,
each gilt – bronzed through and through.
Like Paris ebenistes, I’m having
deja ormolu.

They – Eeyore, Piglet, Rabbit, Owl –
with me and Baby Roo,
stroll Hundred Aker Wood once more.
I’m having deja Pooh.

I’ve lined up. But…in line for what?
Cheap tickets for The Who?
Why can’t I, then, ken where or when?
Do I have deja queue?

I stand before my stove once more --
su chef, Le Cordon Bleu, 
don toque (my hat), whisk flour in fat.
I’m having deja roux.

Again I pull a Sitting Bull.
Why so? I’ve got no clue.
Still, I’ll not gripe, “With you’s the pipe”
when having deja Sioux.

Revisiting the jet set, as
from time to time I do, 
I roast great hosts of global ghosts.
Do I have deja Tru?

I live a lie. Then, by and by,
reliving it anew,
I start to see. What’s dawned on me?
That I have dej’ untrue.

As if on hajj, I roam the Raj,
like Fogg and Passepartout.
That tang? Again? I’m having, then,
more deja vindaloo.

Once more, these scents. Such redolence:
is something on my shoe?
They come, these smells, from fragrance hells.
I’m having deja “whew!” 

I’ve chanced upon these domes of Khan
more times than Earhart flew. 
They never cloy. I so-o-o-o enjoy
each deja Xanadu.

As encore, I’ll quick march a mile
ensconced in your left shoe.
No diff’rence be ‘twixt thee and me:
I’m having deja you.

I can’t ignore what’s seen before –
a ewe, a gnu, a shrew.
Wild things times ten, seen o’er again:
I’m having deja zoo.

And so it goes. As I disclose
to you one final vu
to end one verse, I start rehears-
als. Coming's Deja Two.

"Todaey's the 31st of Maey..." Paean on the Last Daey of Maey

Todaey's the 31st of Maey 
and, just like aeny daey this Maey,
Maey's raeinin' clouds weaer shrouds of claey.

Maey's ocean waeves weaer crowns of spraey
in shaedes of whey, Maey's waey to saey
that Maey remains, clean through todaey, 

a month gone graey -- so very graey
that every single sound of /ay/
Maey's spelt with e-augmented a.

"Curly, Moe, Larry, shemp..." Doin' the Mortal Coil Shuffle: A Constrained Necrologue

Curly, Moe, Larry, Shemp: each devolv'd to room temp.
The cartoonist Thom Nast wound up breathing his last.
Colin’s granddaddy Firth has departed this earth.
When shall you and/or me shuffle off this m. c.?

Codicologist Morse rides – behold! – a pale horse. 

Culture icon Joan Quarm, late last year, bought the farm. 
Mogul Friedrich (“Fritz”) Krupp found his number was up.
When shall you and/or me shuffle off this m. c.?

Mr. John Albert Macy’s now pushing up daisies.
One Solomon Phipps fin’lly cash'd in his chips.
My mate Morrison Waite simply slid off the plate. 
When shall you and/or me shuffle off this m. c.?

All (or most) of the Bysshes now sleep with the fishes. 
St. Christopher Wade? Made to drink the Kool aid.
Herr Hermanus van’t Hoff slowly exited off.
When shall you and/or me shuffle off this m. c.?

Rudi (jazz critic) Blesh went the way of all flesh. 
Ms. Elizabeth Baker en fin met her maker.
Li’l Abner’s Al Capp took that final dirt nap.
When shall you and/or me shuffle off this m. c.?

Couple Carl and Blanche Jost, grinning, gave up the ghost.
Poet Julia Ward Howe waved, then took her last bow.
Joseph Smith and his wives? All of them lost their lives.
When shall you and/or me shuffle off this m. c.?

Far-right-winger John Birch leaned, then fell off his perch.
Charles Caldwell McCabe? In the bosom of Abe. 
Both men -- E. and K Wynn (pop and son) -- packed it in.
When shall you and/or me shuffle off this m. c.?

Rufus, Tom and John Choates all donned pine overcoats.
Kicked the bucket did Boggs: J. S. G. popped his clogs.
Even Prosp Merimee, in the end, passed away.
When shall you and/or me shuffle off this m. c.?

"My belief in my Awl..." My Mistrusted Menagerie: A Nonsense in Meters and Dubious Rhymes

Faith in my Awl remains awlfully smawl.
What I know of my Brylle is, essentially, nylle.
Apropos my Clampoo, I possess not a cloo.
R&D on my Droone? Discontinued last Joone.
As concerning my Erd I've heard nary a werd.
Tests performed on my Flopt? Ex officio stopt.
Should I shelter a Glannz? Though I could, I've no plannz.
Once endangered, my Hyst now’s been scratched from that lyst.
My poor Ilk lost its hair. (Truth be known, I don't cair.)
I once pooh-pooh’d my Jeng. Then the Fat Lady seng.
My poor Kloyl died of AIDS: we were playing charaids.
How my Lhugee makes do? It ingests its own po.
Asked to care for a Mhanx, I said, “Thanx but no thanx.”
So: how cool is my Nyuk? One part goose, two parts dyuk.
Some might visit my Ohng, but they don’t tarry lhong.
Time reported my Phryfe lives in fear for its lyfe.
Have you seen my Qabazz? Fret not: nobody hazz.
All those blogs re my Rolld? Evidently on holld.
The whole life of my Schtakt fills just one tiny trakt.
What’s the knack of my Tyghte? Just to hide in plain syghte.
Ugh! The last living Uew died in tuew thousand tuew..
Yes, my Vardavalette's an impossible pette.
All my Wargs went extinct. (To the auk they’ve been linct.)
No, my Xanthano can't catch the Gingerbread Mant.
First, my Yergaroo pair mated. Now they’re not thair.
I know that my Zuzzent would love to…but duzzen’t.

My Fair Mary: A Nonsense Fam'ly Crambo

A fair maid is Mary. Her surname's duBarry. 
Her tipple's dry sherry. Her mood? Quite contrary. 
She’s heedless, is Mary. Of Mary I’m wary.
She’s careless. She’s airy. Of Mary I’m chary.

She's vowed not to marry – a vow I’d not parry. 
Her dad's Captain Larry. He pilots a ferry.
Her mom, nee Glengarry, milks bears in a dairy. 
Her brother's called Terry. Some swear he's a fairy.

Her sister's name's Jeri. Jer’s fair-hair'd -- and hairy. 
Her great-uncle Gary’s the clan’s cash-‘n’-carry
comptroller in Gary. Her aunt shares an aerie –
no hawks, one canary -- with Marion Barry. 

Monotonous? Very! (Rejoice! I’ll not tarry.)

I'm (Like) Ma Vlast: A Constrained Rhyme

My country, right or wrong! 
My brewskis? Lite or strong! 
My Potus? Dwight or Long! * I'm (like) 
my country, right or wrong! 
     * Ike achieved; Huey aspired. 

My skivvies? Tights or thong! 
My show? "Tonight" or "Gong"! 
My game? "Dogfight" or "Pong"! I'm (like) 
my country, right or wrong!

My island? Wight or Long!* 
My meerschaum? White or bong! 
My "ciao"? "'Goodnight" or "S'long"! I'm (like) 
my country, right or wrong!
     * The Isle of Wight or Long Island

My pet? Kite or dugong! 
My hairstyle? Fright or long! 
My Hong? "Trade site"* or Kong! I'm (like) 
my country, right or wrong!
      * 'Hong' is Chinese for foreign 
commercial establishment.    

My bird? In-flight or song-! 
My throng? Slight or "humong-"! 
My fate? Shite or "Go 'long!" I'm (like) 
my country, right or wrong!

My sex ed? Hite or Jong!* 
My -geist?** Zeit- or "ding-dong"!
My cuntwee? Wite or wong! I'm (like) 
my country, right or wrong!
     * Shere or Erica   ** German for 
characteristic spirit ('Zeit' means time).  

Mute Court or Upending Amendments: the Four Freedoms: A Constrained Rhyme

The Kremlin he’s lootin’: that’s Vladimir Putin.
He’s point guards recruitin’: that’s Coach Morgan Wootten.
At Putin we're hootin.' For Morgan we're rootin.'
But freedom of speech Donald's courts ain't salutin.' 

His horn he’s self-tootin’: that's Grigor' Rasputin.
When movies not shootin,’ Dors* draws drafts in Luton.
For Dors we are rootin’; at Grigor' we’re hootin,'
But freedom of worship down "christians" are shootin.'
     * UK film star Diana Dors occasionally worked as a publican.

Past second he’s scootin’: that's Mil-town's** Bill Bruton.
With Leibniz disputin’ be piss'd Isaac Newton.
For Bruton we're rootin'; at Newton we're hootin.'
But freedom from want Don's colluders ain't mootin.'
     ** Milwaukee -- specifically the Milwaukee Braves baseball team.

His mummified suit in lies ol’ -khamun, Tutan-.
A tad highfalutin’? That’s -- mispronounced! -- Grooton.***
At Grooton we're hootin’; for Tutan- we’re rootin.'
But freedom from fear all Don's bruitin's are mutin.'
     *** Here of necessity not pronounced as it properly is, i.e., 'grahtin.'

M*me's the Word: A Constrained Nonsense Rhyme

‘Mame’’s the word for Mrs. Burnside.

Patrick* calls her Auntie Mame.
She savors savants; snobs she spurns. I’d
label ‘Mame’ another meme.

     * Patrick Dennis, author of Auntie Mame.

‘Meme’’s the word for ‘culture force.’
Pure Dawkins, dreaming up a name
for surd, gefelte fish, wild horse.
This meme’s immense, the mother meme.

‘Mime’’s the word for imitate. 
Stan Laurel played the apeing game
with Ollie, first in silent state.
This ‘mime’’s a slapstick brother meme.

‘Mome’’s the word for ‘lost one’s way.’
The Rev’rend Carroll’s most to blame.
“Do mome raths grabe?” one asks today.
This ‘mome’s’ a “had his druther” meme.

‘Mume’* (not ‘mum’’s) my word. I coined
it Friday last. It’s been my dream
to, lest its usage be enjoined,
pinch hit for ev’ry other meme,
to focus, like a laser beam,
my “other-memes-to-smother” meme,
my “memes can go no 'futher'” meme.
(I hope ‘mume’ grows and picks up steam.)

     * Pronounced “myum” and not to be confused
with ‘mu-ME,’ a species of Japanese apricot.

A Month of Maddays: A Constrained Nonsense Calendar

May is a mad, mad, mad, mad Mental Health Month. 
Below is my abecedarial daytimer.

On Madday the first, lad Mad Anthony Wayne 
moues, “I’m mad…about you!” (I fear Tony’s insane.)
Later on that same day, I hear Madame Toussaud: 
“I’m as mad as hell…and I’ll not take it no mo’.”

On the second, “Mad Bomber” Metesky's on tap.
(Mr. M’s mad ball ops demand decades to scrap.)
On Madday the third, madcap devil-my-care
playboy Reggie Van Gleason falls by – avis rare!

On Madday the fourth, tales of mad cow disease
relates "Rad Rachel" Maddow, doyenne of TVs.
Though supportive of MADD, she downs cocktails with ease
ev'ry Madday night -- sev’ral. (I'd best hide her keys.)   

On Madday the fifth, I remember things past,
such as Proust and his madeleines -- weren’t those a blast?
Whistling “Paddlin’ Madeline Home” I row fast. 
(My raft's made in Japan, so I fear it won't last.)

On the sixth day, a mad friend of mine, one who's queueing
before the Mad Fox Brew’ry door, coos, “What’s brewing?
My palate needs fresh’ning. My throat? 'Tis bone-dry:
thus I’m mad for your barleywine. Poured's a pint nigh? 

Or mad fruit (whiskey raisins), mad figs (fresh from roasting),
mad French macaroons… (Such mad flavors you’re posting!)
So, well you might ask: why'm I not on their tour? 
For the nonce, this mad fool has been taking the cure.)

On Madday the seventh…

(A work in progress)

"Mada" Hari  Madagascar 
Madchen in Uniform 
Mad Dog Mattis 
Madge
madhi  Mad Hatter
Madison 
Mad Jack
Rabee al-Madkhali  Mad King
Mad Libs  Mad Ludwig
Mad Max  Mad Men  mad money  Mad Magazine
madness
Madonna
Mad P
Mad Q
Mad River  Madras
Mad Science
Mad TV  Mad Tea Party
"Mad"usa
Mad v
Mad (Mad, Mad, Mad) World (It's A)
Mad X
Mad Y
Mad Z

Gaelic Roots or What's Your Irish Surname Name Mean? A Constrained Alphabet

MacAdamia 
Motel in-room snack bar nut? Or toxin frackin’ Fido’s gut?*
     * Macadamias are severely toxic to dogs.  

MacBeth 
Toney Tony-winning part? Or tough transgender's nom-de-tart?

McCormick 
Baltimorons' spice vendeur? Or 'mick'? Or 'M(a)c'? (I'm not quite sure.)

McDuck 
Grasping geezer? Loon de loot? Or Ebenezer, cast as coot.*
     * A canvasback or gallinule or bufflehead – but no one’s fool

MacEdonia 
Where Phillip* plants his totem pole? Or country tasked with crowd control.** 
     * The Man of Macedonia, of course 
     ** Cf recent refugee crisis at Greek border

McFries 
Slipp'ry slope towards childhood lard? Or I've misspelled 'McFlies'? (Canard!)  

MacGuffin 
Hitchcock movie plot technique? Or letters from my 'muffin' leak?*.
     * An ‘a,’ a ‘c’ and a ‘G’ dropped from ‘MacGuffin’ leave ‘muffin.’

MacHu (Picchu) 
Abandon'd Incan real estate? Or Irish sneeze? (Gesundheit, mate!)

McIntosh 
Apple breed? Or leakproof coat? Or Gael immersed in nonsense quote.*
     * Mc in 'tosh'

Mick Jagger 
UK knighthood candidate?* Or packhorse manager’s work state.
     * I.e., Sir Mick  
     ** In England the owner or manager of a pack of horses was called a jagger.

MacKinac 
Island in a Huron Lac? Or relatives of Mac called ‘Ac.’? 

McLean 
Virginia home to CIA? Or new McDonald's meal? (No way!)

McMansion 
The nouveau-riches’ “garage mahal"? Or (sans 'i') Erse M.,* C.,** et al.***
     * Marilyn, the rocker   ** Charles, the nutter   
     *** Other members of the so-called “Manson family.”

MacNutt 
A dude dubbed Boob (Rube's* handiwork)? Or laptop user's Apple quirk.
     * I. e., Goldberg  

McCoy 
A Star Fleet officer called "Bones"? Or how a Jew from Galway moans?

MacPherson (Strut) 
Suspension system in fine cars? Or move on "Dancin' With Scots Stars"?

McQueen 
Prissy to Leigh's Scarlett O'?* Or Irish guy in gay floor show.
     * I. e, Butterfly

McRib 
Fast food made of barbie’d pork? Or baby's bunk from Leith or Cork?*
     * Mac Crib?

McSweeney's 
Innovative publishing? Or "What-if-Todd-were-Irish?" thing? 

("Soap") MacTavish 
"Call of Duty" go-to guy? Or suds for Irish drip 'n' dry. 

MacUlar (Degeneration) 
Age-related loss of sight? Or Quarter Pounder burger blight?

McVeigh 
Homely home-grown terror bird?* Or Irish “Oy! Vey!” spelt absurd?
     * Oklahoma bomber Timothy

MaxWell (House) 
Caffeine good to final drop? Or where Mac keeps his mops to sop.*
     * I.e., Mac's well house.  

MaXimilien 
Major "Reign of Terror"ist”* Or beaucoup bucks within one's fist.**
     * I.e., Robespierre   ** I.e., maxi million

MacY's: 
Sponsor of a big parade? Or Irish inn where young men stay'd.?*
     * An Irish YMCA?

MCZSGT: 
Sgt. "Jim"'s* own CAPTCHA word? Or prayer in church Sarge overheard?
     * That’s Sgt. N. (“Jim”) Smithe-Magee (the N stands for ‘(k)Nack)

Drumpf Kim Nuclear Summit

(Nota bene: 

for optimal effect, 

expand to full screen 

before viewing.)

Undone Via Pun: Materials for a Constrained Nonsense Alphabet

For future Hommages A Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies

A is for Alfie, topped taking a salfie

A’s Aloysius, who sleeps with the fusius.
B is for Boris: he fell off his horis.
B is for Bob: he ate toxic kohlrobhe.
B is for Bridget: her body’s gone fridget.
B is for Bruce, who wears concrete shuce. 
C is for Caesar, who suffered a saesure.
C is for Carla, dispatched in the parla.
C is for Clyde, a pact suicyde.
C is for Cora: bumped off! (Oh, the hora!) 
C is for Cornell. He's dead as a dornell.
D is for Doris, who rides the pale horis. 
D is for David: he couldn't be savid.
D is for Dale, who's gone well b'yond the vale. 
E is for Earl. he's not long for this wearl. 
E is for Evelyn, pierced by a jevelyn.
E’s Eloise: fin’lly resting in pise.
F is for Faust: yes, he “gave up the gaust.”
F is for Frank: heard the Fat Lady sank.
G is for George, who ate poisonous porrge.
G is for Gordon, who crossed over Jordon. 
G is for Gary, whose corpse we should bary.
H is for Henry: he perished from pen'ry.
I’s for Ignatius, whose cyst proved sebatius.
J is for Jim: surgeons sawed off his lim.
J is for Judas, who’d tried to eludas.
K is for Keith, who grew wa-a-a-ay too obeith.
L is for Leif: he was shot by his weif. 
L is for Lynn: the chauffeur did him ynn. 
L is for Lance, masticated by ance.
L is for Linda, who burned to a cinda.
L is for Lum. His hour has cum. 
M is for Mickey. His end? A bit stickey. 
M is for Modred, who asked, “Is this lodred?”
M is for Mies, who's been sent to Belies. 
M is for Morris: the levees proved porris.
N is for Nash. Went the way of all flash. 
N is for Nash: is that dust? Or his ashis?
N is for Ned: no one knows if he’s ded.
N is for Nate, now referred to as "late..." 
O is for Oliver: shot (a revoliver).
P is for Pete: his exec lhit "delete." 
P's for Prunella, walled up in the cella.
Q is for Quinn: too much tonic-free ginn.
R is for Rose, who's turned up her tose. 
R is for Ray. He's dead (K. I. Ay).
R is for Ron, who was quartered and dron.
R is for Randolph: a sword took his handolph. 
S is for Shemp, who's now at room temp. 
S? For Samantha: thought pills were the antha.
S is for Susan. She died with her busan.
T is for Tom. Took a gun; bought the fom.
T is for Ted: someone chopped off his hed. 
T is for Tess. Her spirit's at ress. 
T is for Ty. Kissed his rear end goodby. 
U is for Uther: en fin, a born luther.
V is for Vivian: no longer Livian.
W’s Wayne, who’s been savagely slayne.
W? Wilt: we're quite sure he's been kilt.
W's Wade, who's, undoubtedly, dade. 
W's Ward. He's been put to the sord.
X is for Xeno, who binged on cheap veno.
Y is for Yul, who was gored by a bul.
Z is for Zeke: died while taking a leke.

Monday's Thoughts: A Constrained Nonsense Rhyme

Philanthropists to promisees:
"Money doesn't grow on trees."
The scientist re mind agrees:
"Honey doesn't know from bees."
The lit crit to her auditees:
"Donne: he's one who's prone to fleas."
The sports reporter who's Chinese:
"Jeez: Sun Wen's cousin's so-o-o-o obese."

(More to come: a work in progress)

I'm Quick to Quote an Anecdote: A Constrained Alphabet in Rhyme

I'm quick to quote an anecdote. 

With bromides, bro, I'm facile.

Fresh coining is my metier. 

A dictum? Hey! No hassle!

I've ghosted loads of episodes. 

I'm fecund with a fable.

At home with ev'ry gnome,

to hatch a hapax I'm quite able.

My latest insight's out today. 

I live to tell a joke.

And, if it please, my koans tease. 

For legends, I'm yer bloke.

I make up mottos, mold new myths. 

My narratives are peerless.

My omens are...well: ominous. 

With proverbs I am fearless. 

The quip's my game, my claim to fame. 

Romance? My stock in trade.

Which tongue’s my saga? Onondaga! 

Tales? A fusillade! 

I ain't no dunce with utterance.

With verbiage I'm rife. 

Most nits insist my witticisms

prick 'em like a knife.

My axioms? X-rated though they be,

yield "puro d'or." 

The yarns I field yield zingers: 

each one leaves 'em wanting more.

I've epithets and commonplaces,

sayings, apercus.  

I've apophthegms and adages.

(Some aphorisms, too.)  

I'm thick with theses. Mad for maxims.

Saws? Two pecks a day.

But if this gent stays President,

I won't know what to say.