Uly Poe's Sixth Voyage 'Round Archaedia: An Internally Rhyming Alphabet

A is for Andy: at 90, still randy.
B is for Billie: calls Andy “Sir Silly.”
C is for Clarke, who’s constructing an ark.
D is for Doris, caught bleeding her loris.
E is for Errol. Thank God the man’s sterile.
F is for Fran: starts each morning with bran.
G is for Gretchen, a femme fa-a-ar from fetchin.’
H is for Heidi: takes meals in her nightie.
I is for Ivan. (Is Ivan still drivin’…?)
J is for Jill, who’s rewriting her will.
K is for Keith. Keith’s been filing his teeth.
L’s for Laurindo: he flaunts his bay window.
M’s for Miranda: she breast feeds her panda.
N’s for Noreen of the proactive spleen.
O is for Otto: “Right now!”’s his new motto.
P’s for Pilar: keeps one eye in a jar.
Q is for Quinn. None know what state he’s in.
R is for Ross, First Floor Teaparty boss.
S is for Stephen, whose left leg’s uneven.
T is for Thor: shouts, “I’ll give ya ‘what for’!”
U’s for Ulysses: has no time for “sissies.”
V is for Vaughn. (Are those spats he has on…?)
W’s Wayne, who pretends to be Shane.
X is for Xavier. His issue’s behavior.
Y is for Yuri: a man in no hurry.
Z is for Zoltan: poor blighter’s been moultin.’

Uly Poe's Fifth Voyage 'Round Archaedia: An Alphabet

A’s for Arlette: former fundraiser (SIDS).
B is for Bruce, who hates ev’ryone’s kids.
C is for Cass: overdoes the mascara.
D’s for Demi, who pretends she’s in Tara.
E’s for Elaine. She’s now buried six husbands.
F is for Flo, who’s just cash’d out her trust funds.
G’s for Georgette, who wears wa-a-ay too much rouge.
H is for Huck. Huck fell off of his luge.
I is for Iphigenia. She died.
J is for Joel: ends most Friday nights fried.
K is for Kieran, who bench presses barbells.
L’s for Letitia, who’s lost all her marbles.
M’s for Marie, who burlesques Baba Yaga.
N’s for Noël, whom they call “Granny Gaga.”
O is for Otto, a twin amputee.
P is for Pat, who snorts “Vitamin Z.”
Q is for Quill, duly praised for her cursive
R is for Reg: edits Senior Subversive.
S is for Sylvie, who knits for the troops.
T is for Trevor: Trev’s frankfurter droops.
U is for Ulmer, whose dandruff’s neglected.
V is for Vaclav. He’s dead (it’s suspected).
W’s Wim who bowls 71.
X is for Xim, who shows zero pulse – none.
Y is for Yip: bowled a 72.
Z is for Zane. Hey, Zane:: how old are you…?

Uly Poe's Fourth Voyage 'Round Archaedia: An Alphabet

A is for Axl, allergic to mold.
B is for Beryl: she will not be told.
C is for Chester, who suffers from shingles.
D is for Dodie: her left pinkie tingles.
E is for Efrem, whose lung shows a spot.
F is for Fran who frets, “Why’s it so hot…?”
G is for George: feels discomfort when sitting.
H is for Hope, who got punctured while knitting.
I is for Ina: ignor’d by her kids.
J is for Joan: calls all widows “The Wids.”
K is for Kate, always draped in a shawl.
L’s for Lorraine: has a thing for Rand Paul.
M is for Mel: endured cataract surgery.
N is for Nita: served six months for perjury.
O’s for Odette, who gets lost at the mall.
P is for Phillip, who “used to be tall.”
Q is for Quilla: she’s down with pneumonia.
R is for Roger who calls himself “Sonia.”
S is for Sam: hopes for one last hurrah.
T is for Trudy, who “misplaced” her bra.
U is for Ulric: he’s under the weather.
V is for Van, who is now into leather.
W’s Wilson, who won’t take his Plavix.
X is for Xilla, who frets, “They don’t have Vicks.”
Y is for Yan: hits you up for a fiver.
Z is for Zeph: in the end, a survivor.

Uly Poe's Third Voyage 'Round Archaedia: An Alphabet

A is for Alma who’s alter’d her will.
B is for Bob's boast: “I’m under the hill!”
C is for Constance who voted for Hoover.
D is for Den: neither shaker nor mover.
E is for Emma. Her race…? Almost run.
F is for Fenton. He's purchased a gun.
G is for Grace: she has good days and bad.
H is for Hank: calls my iphone “a fad.”
I’s for Inez who has doctor’d her age.
J is for Johann. (Dementia, third stage.)
K is for Kathryn, a petulant scold.
L is for Lon whose great-granddaughter’s old.
M is for Max who’s develop’d a goiter.
N is for Nan: claims the gateman “annoy’d” her.
O is for Oz: keeps a floozie in town.
P is for Paula. Her toenails turn’d brown.
Q is for Quentin. Rose claims Quentin died.
R is for Rose: claims the newspaper lied.
S is for Shirl: mixes hounds tooth with plaid.
T is for Tim who pass’d. (Ulmer’s so-o-o sad.)
U is for Ulmer: he’s taken up snuff.
V is for Vaughn. “Vaughn! Get offa yer duff!”
W’s Walt, who tells sick shaggy dogs.
X is for Xeno: he posts tell-all blogs.
Y is for Yasser. His room lacks a view.
Z is for Zoë. Don’t know her. Do you…?

Runcibl'd Spooner: Another "I Lack Fives" Matter...?

Your final exam now is over.
(You need ne'er again bear such a grilling.) 
Pencils down!
     You owe Mr. Washington twenty.
D'you intend to him lend ev'ry shilling...?
Denzel's poun.'
     Moral:

Lay back! Pay back!

Runcibl'd Spooner: Flubb'd Med

Some iffy stuff -- hydroxl kin -- 

concerning which Trump lied:

hydroxychloroquine.
A bit of fluff of Mr. Quinn; 

say "hi" to Roxie Clyde:
Clyde, Roxie -- whore o' Quinn.
     Moral:

Rx/Rox: half mends, half mocks.

Runcibl'd Spooner: Very Barry

The pol’s name's pronounced;

the applause inflates faster:
“Barack Obama!”
     BaroqueFest announced
by a stammering 'caster:
“Ba-Bach-o-Rama!”
     Moral:
Brothers (bros) and sisters (sisses) 

miss the man -- and miss his Mrs.

Self "Poe"trait

 

Runcibl'd Spooner: Gnothi Ventur'd, Gnothi Gain'd

     They had
Plato. They had Aristotle.
Crikey! They had
Socrates:
     in
ancient Greece, each
sage ruled philo-
sophical au-
tocracies.
     Moral:
Gnothi sauton -- or know the reason why!

Baby, It's COV'D Outside: Pre-Flu-Season's Greetings or Rounding the Coroner

Dash off hums for the holidays…?

Lord knows I’ve tried

to so metamorph “Baby, it’s 

COV’D outside”
into Noëls of nonsense to 

pleasures provide,
but it’s tough wielding “Baby, it’s 

COV’D outside.”

Memes like 'hydroxychloroquine,' 

e.g., I’ve eyed,
to inject into “Baby, it’s 

COV’D outside.”
Even channel’d Frank Loesser as 

metrical guide
to blue-pencil my “Baby, it’s 

COV’D outside.”

I have plagiarized "Jingle Bells"

("...what fun... to ride...")

which I bundled with "Baby, it's 

COV'D outside."

Then I deftly "White Christmas"'s

mush modified

so's to dovetail with "Baby, it's 

COV'D outside."

When with copyright counsels

I chanced to collide 
(might some sue me for "Baby it's

COV'D outside"...?),

I was forced to, through New Year's,

in Reno reside:

bookies there ignored "Baby, it's 

COV'D outside."

At wits' end -- the while hoping that

elf hadn't died --

I wrote Santa re "Baby, it's 

COV'D outside."

By return mail, sign'd "Jekyll," (was 

I Mr. Hyde...?)

he wrote, "Can't help, ya, baby: there's

COV'D outside."

As an effort -- last ditch! -- I to

POTUS applied

that I hoped to help "Baby, it's 

COV'D outside"

become music Americans

warbled with pride. 

In predictable fashion, the

president lied:

"But Obama's a fore'gner: with 

Biden he spied!

But Bent Hill'ry's a porn'er: she's  

nasty; she's snide!

But if only we'd tested less 

(we do more testing than

practically anyone)

none would have died!

But we've rounded the corner -- I'll

toot my own horn here -- we've

rounded the corner -- 

hey! Don't be a scorner! -- we've

rounded the corner: there's

no need to hide 'cuz we've

rounded the corner: no

COV'D outside."

A Limerick on Queneau's "Exercises in Style" (from "Exercises in Style: The Poetic Supplement," Number 263)

There was a young buck 'board a bus

who, when bruis'd 'bout his shanks, broach'd a fuss.

Later on, dans Le Cour,

his valet observ'd, "Your

coat's lapel button fixin' needs...thus!"

Runcibl'd Spooner: Mondo Mundo

Life has grown tiresome,

monotonous, humdrum,
repetitive, boring...
mundane.
I've beleaguer'd New Hampshire,
appeal'd to Montana:
on Monday a week I'll
dun Maine.
     Moral:
Seek and you'll be fined.

"Quatrain For Queneau": An Anagram Poem on 'Raymond Queneau' (from "Exercises in Style: The Poetic Supplement," Number 264)

     The second half of line one along with each of the 

six subsequent half lines of the quatrain are anagrams of 

the first half of line one -- i.e., of 'Raymond Queneau.'

Additionally, as proper quatrains should consist of a pair 

of rhyming couplets, "Q For Q" follows that prescription

with what can be seen as faux eye rhymes -- 'drum' and

'(quo)rum' and '(Mon)day' and 'quay,' though 'quay' is

properly pronounced 'kee,' thus the faux eye rhyme 

designation. 

Raymond Queneau, 

ye neon aqua drum.

Damn! You 'n' a queer 

need a -- any! -- quorum.
O Ray! Manque (nude) 

ran queue Monday.
Mary, Queen o' Duna: 

Mud...? Ne'er on a quay!

A Pantoum on Queneau's "Exercises in Style" (from "Exercise in Style: The Poetic Supplement," Number 265)

'Tis mid-day rush. I board an S-line bus.
I'm standing on the platform at the back.
A long-neck'd cove of 26 complains:
"Commuters! Must you deal my shins a thwack...?"

I'm standing on the platform at the back.

Monsieur Le Plaindre sports a silly hat.

"Commuters! Must you deal my shins a thwack...?"

Some string sits where his hat band should be at.

Monsieur Le Plaindre sports a silly hat.

His neck's too long; his tone's a sniv'lling drone.

Some string sits where his hat band should be at.

I spot him later; he is not alone.

His neck's too long; his tone's a sniv'lling drone.

A vacant seat...? He makes himself at home.

I spot him later; he is not alone.

He's in discussion, near the Cour de Rome.

A vacant seat...? He makes himself at home.

Then he's away. 'Cross town he must have raced.

He's in discussion near the Cour de Rome:

"That button on your coat's so poorly placed."

Runcibl'd Spooners: Comes the Dawn + Chums o' Don

Comic Brit --

one fa-a-ar from poorest:
Dawn French.
Bambi tinkles in the forest:
Fawn drench.
     Moral:
Antic goon...?
Meet antler'd 'toon.

It's taken some* 'til '20 

to acknowledge: 

Black Lives Matter!

McConnell...? He's Life's 

kidney, life's urethra... 

Mac...? Life's bladder.

     Moral:

Life's a Mitch.

     * J. Kushner and D. Drumpf 

not among them.

Sent: Some Feet* From Central Street (*Of the metrical sort, of course)

Dead
Protestor

I. Runcibl'd Spooner: Kitschin' Sinking 

Hackney'd Bulwer-Lytton here:
"...a dark and stormy night..."
Clothes...? Conservative, austere:
a stark and normy dight.

     Moral:

The start of Clifford, Paul...? 

But part of Edward's fall.

 

II. Queneau Does Goose 

Long-necked Jean

With silly hat,
Toes trodden on,
Gets into spat.
Then jumps ahead
To hear his friend:
Jean needs a thread,
His coat to mend.

Six Poems on Raymond Queneau's "Exercises in Style": Items in the Abecedarially Ordered Series of Verses in a Variety of Poetic Forms: "Rimes pour Raymond" (from "Exercises in Style: The Poetic Supplement," Numbers 266 -268)

     In one of his classic texts, Queneau displays a hundred prose 

versions of a single tale -- its mundane specifics spelled out in the 

book's opening "Notation" chapter -- versions which might issue 

from any creative author's imagination constrained by the categories 

indicated by the book's chapter titles. In "Rhymes," poetaster Uly Poe 

demonstrates how oodles of poetic expressions can riff on some of 

those same specifics.

     A is for acrostic (here a double acrostic).  

Rush hour! "Yours t." 'board some stuff'd S-line buS

At the back, on the balcony (platform), pack'd tighT.

"You me pousse,'" I hear thin-neck'd Sir Sillyhat saY.

"Moins, moins jostlin'!" (Our bus, truth be told. is quite fulL.)

On the head of this jostlee's a tile of the typE

Now unchic, for, instead of its hatband, I seE,

Dangling over its brim, a string (late off a boX...?).

Quite grotesque, if you really must know. Oui: bizarrE! 

Until now I've not noticed the neck of this passengeR,

Eas'ly as long as a brontazore's (siC).

Now the sardine can empties. All leave, as do I...

Except Jostlee: giraffe one now-vacant seat grabS. 

A short hour or two on, I observe him once morE.

"Ugly job," notes his friend. "Your lapel's such a mesS!"

     H is for haiku.  

Spring! Bus-board buttin';

porkpie'd loon grabs vacant seat:

snip! Button's tailor'd.

     L is for limerick.

     One 

There was a young buck 'board a bus

who, when  bruis'd 'bout his shanks, broach'd a fuss.

Later on, dans Le Cour,

his valet observ'd, "Your

coat's lapel button fixing needs...thus!"

     Two 

Odd Commuter, his personal space

interfered with (his hat...? A disgrace!),

newly vacant seat grabs.

Later on, his friend gabs:

"Let's your overcoat's button replace."

     P is for pantoum.

'Tis mid-day rush. I board an S-line bus.

I'm standing on the platform at the back.
A long-neck'd cove of twenty-some complains:
"Commuters! Must you deal my shins a thwack...?"

I'm standing on the platform at the back.

Monsieur Le Plaindre sports a silly hat.

"Commuters! Must you deal my shins a thwack...?"

Some string sits where his hat band should be at.

Monsieur Le Plaindre sports a silly hat.

His neck's too long; his tone's a sniv'lling drone.

Some string sits where his hat band should be at.

I spot him later; he is not alone.

His neck's too long; his tone's a sniv'lling drone.

A vacant seat...? He makes himself at home.

I spot him later; he is not alone.

He's in discussion, near the Cour de Rome.

A vacant seat...? He makes himself at home.

Then he's away. ('Cross town he must have raced.)

He's in discussion near the Cour de Rome:

"That button on your coat's s-o-o-o poorly placed."

     Q is for quatrain. 

Quatrain For Queneau: An Anagram Poem on "Raymond Queneau"

Raymond Queneau, ye neon aqua drum.

Damn! You 'n' a queer need a -- any! -- quorum.
O Ray! Manque (nude) ran queue Monday.
Mary, Queen o' Duna: mud...? Ne'er on a quay!

Moment of Veritasiness Number 718

"I'm gonna count to ten, by which
time if I've heard nothing from You,
I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

The Placozoa Chronicles, Episode 45: The Song of the Gnome

  Protestor
with Wand

 

    Ep. 45: A Z A P O L O C: As a Poloc

Though a gnome not from Warsaw but Nome,
I speak Polish wherever I roam,
nor one damn do I give: 
in my garden I live
az a Poloc, and call garden home.

Nine Noxious Novels -- Including Their Anagrammatic Opening Lines Which Victorian Author Edward Bulwer-Lytton MIGHT Have Written Instead Of The Opening Line He Actually Wrote To Begin His Novel "Paul Clifford": "It Was A Dark And Stormy Night..." -- or What Was It Really Like That Evening...?

     The 24 Letters

A A A A D D G H I I K M N N O R R S S T T T W Y

     The Opening Lines 

Damn! A kittydog saw rats in H.R.

Do it, Ma! Hang Kid WarttyAss, R.N.!

My dart, nigh to a tan'd-raw kiss

Dirty Dr. Gaat...? Santa knows him.

Martians throw Sky Gin at Dad.

No drawing, St. Mark, at thy dais.

Say, "And swig that drink, Mr. Tao!"

Stand making radar toast...? Why...?

My waist sang "'Ard Rd." -- I think.

It was a dark and stormy night.

     The Titles and Synopses

     1 

Big Ol' Ben and Li'l Rin-Tin-Tigger 

by Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The CEO of a firm in The City employs a pest-fighting

duo consisting of one ex-Scotland Yard sniffer dog and one animal of an entirely

new species -- the laboratory created so-called "caninecat," one part feral feline,

one part British bulldog -- to track down and eradicate an infestation of multiple 

nuisances in his Human Resources Dept. As readers will remember, the London

Times best seller began thus: 

     "'Damn! A kittydog saw rats in H.R...'"

     2 

Outlaw Nurse Practitioners of the Old West: a Memoir

by Judge Dory Beane as told to Edward Bulwer-Lytton: Rough frontier justice as meted out to those guilty of healthcare malpractice was often as swift as it ultimately proved capricious -- especially when delivered by those notorious female judges who wielded their gavels for several hot summers in the territories west-north-west of the Pecos. Who can forget the account's shrill opening lines 

voiced by the Hanging Judgess's empathy-challenged son and acting assistant deputy Donald: 

 

     "'Do it, Ma! Hang Kid WarttyAss, R.N.!...'" 

     3 

The Bowler & the Burnoose or Raidin' 'n' Robbin' With Robin of Arabia 

by Edward Bulwer-Lytton: a reimagining of the history of British adventuring in 

the Mideast by relocating it and its Victorian practitioners to a particularly arid neighborhood within Sherwood Forest. Don't all remember how the novel famously opens...?

     "My dart, nigh to a tan'd-raw kiss..."

     4 

Abortion at the North Pole: A Merry Christmas Mystery 

by Edward Bulwer-Lytton, in which an elderly Mr. Kringle abandons his annual toy distribution philanthropy to open "Back-Alley Babies," an entirely new and (for now) perfectly legal clinical enterprise. The work's well-known opening...? 

     

     "Dirty Dr. Gaat...? Santa knows him...."

     5

Red Planet, Green Men & Pink Elephants 

by Edward Bulwer-Lytton, in which fiendish space invaders, employing their deadly Intoxi-Ray, attack Earth women in general and the narrator's alcoholic father in particular. Few can forget the novel's first words:

     

     "Martians throw Sky Gin at Dad..."

     6

The Godspell Strip: A 'Toon of the Christ 

by Edward Bulwer Lytton, in which the Winged Lion of Alexandria, against all the cautionary urgings of his fellow evangelists, elects to spread not The Word but The Doodle. Chapter one begins thus: 

     "'No drawing, St. Mark, at thy dais...'"

     7

Cheers! Legends from a Limehouse Speakeasy 

by Edward Bulwer-Lytton, in which the female narrator, a former madam and gangster's moll, regales her readers with stories of the drinks and the drunks which to this day support her and her aged mother. Reviewers often quote the 

novel's infamous beginning: 

     "'Say, "And swig that drink, Mr. Tao!"'..."

     8

Bunker Buzz: Hitler's Secret Weapon: The Fact & The Fable

by Edward Bulwer-Lytton...    (a work in progress)

     "Stand making radar toast...? Why...?"

     9

Confessions of a Relapsed Lipo-Suction Junkie

by Edward Bulwer-Lytton...   (a work in progress)

     "'My waist sang "'Ard Rd." -- I think...'"

Runcibl'd Spooner: Lunique in Munique

Protestor
with
Stick

Im München, post 1911,*

knots of artists -- no fewer than seven** --

to Express'onism furnish leaven:

Der Blaue Reiter

     In New Jersey, a Friedman call'd Milton

plumps for markets, though markets be wiltin.'

(Declares Krugman, "Milt's thinking needs tiltin.'")

The Rahwa' Blighter

      Moral:

An aesthetic braved leads to many spurn'd.

     * To let loose a full range of connotation, 

best read as "post one nine eleven..."

     ** I.e., no fewer that Kandinsky, Jawlensky, von Werefkin,

Marc, Klee, Macke and Münter.

Runcibl'd Spooner: Generations Plus Dueling Self Portraits (Oz & PJ)

 

I'm grandad to 

one mottl'd crew, 

and, though my name's been James,

my real John Q's

the weal I do.

(Hark not to hollow claims!)

PapaJim

     Who'd stillness seek 

down Chesapeake

notes programs on her phone

which make less bleak 

her day, her week. 

(This rube's disorder prone.)

Joppa PIM 

     Moral:

Each Old Line creek's 

got hold o' geeks.

  "Ozzy"
by Ozzy

  "PapaJim"
by PapaJim

ConeyGirl Redux: Still More Supreme Courting Nonsense ala "My Pony Boy" (1909)

 Protestor
with Pata

ConeyGirl. 

ConeyGirl's

lingo's pure Sho-

shone skirl.

Few can make 

wave nor wake

of the suds she spouts.

Why's she shy...? 

Why's she lie...?

It's so-o-o-o hard to tell.

Poppycock...run the clock...(justice-mock...? Faux!)

O ConeyGirl!

ConeyGirl.

ConeyGirl.

Stoppen Sie ba-

loney, girl!

(More "Coney-" coming: a work in progress)

ConeyGirl Again: More Supreme Courting Nonsense ala "My Pony Boy"

Protestor
with 
Slingshot

ConeyGirl.

ConeyGirl.
Channeling Saint Joan, HeGirl...?
You must hope,
like some Pope, 

to all heathens doom --
with each rule
thinking you’ll 

let thy kingdom come.
Jesus saves. Free the slaves. (Open graves…? Wo-o-oe!)
No, ConeyGirl!

Oh, ConeyGirl: A Supreme Courting Song

 

 Protestor
with Bomb

    (The verses below are to be sung -- indeed they must be sung for 

best effect -- to the tune of a 1909 popular song, "My Pony Boy.")

ConeyGirl. 

ConeyGirl.

Drumpf adores you, don' he, girl!

Take some heat,

then a seat on our highest court.

Plan, in sum...?

Just keep mum: you'll be soon confirm'd. 

Antonin-Clarence kin! (Bader Gin-...? No-o-o-o!)

Oh, ConeyGirl!

ConeyGirl.

ConeyGirl.

Now you're Mitch's crony, girl.

Precedents...? 

Founders' bents trump 'em -- so you say.

Wade v Roe...? 

Gotta go, as does ACA.

Lexual. Textual. (Sexual...? Who-o-oa!)

Oh, ConeyGirl.

ConeyGirl.

ConeyGirl.

Dems feel you're a phony, girl.

Immigrants

stand no chance. Long gun bearers thrive.

Peopl'of Praise

damn the gays. Where do you come down...?

COVID flays. World malaise. (End of Days...? Doh!!)

Oh, ConeyGirl.

The Placozoa Chronicles: Episode 44: Viral Vixen

Protestor
with Shield 

     Ep. 44: L O A A P O C Z: Lo: a…a…pocz!

There once dwelt a flu-bearing fox

who, while otherwise heterodox,

spread his virus through town.

When the whole town came down,

I, immune, shouted, “Lo: a…a…pocz!”

Breaking News: This Just In

Protestor 
with Whip

On Friday,

October 16th,

at noon Eastern time,

Vice President Mike Pence

announced the appointment

of the newest member of Trump's

White House Corona Virus Task Force:

Dr. Novak Seene.

Runcibl'd Spooner: Little Green Mendacities

Protestor with Spear

What does the extra-terrestrial quip 

as he quenches his troubles...? 'Tis

"E.T. phone home."
What is that lad from Arabia's tip  

as he sharpens his bubbles...? 'Tis
"T.E. hone foam."
     Moral:

To each his '-one.'

Runcibl'd Spooner: Self Reverence

Protestor 
with Staff

Spooner takes ‘world peace’

and makes a pun.
Whirl’d peas
     I piss translucent droplets.
Then I’m done.
Pearl’d wees
     Moral:
You’re in the loo…?
The joke’s on you.

Runcibl'd Spooner: Fowl Bawl

Protestor
with Axe

Manicur’d tract wherein

Tinseltown’s talent’s interr’d:
Park Lawn
     For three shillings sixpence
I'd hock Ralph Vaughn Williams’s bird:
Lark pawn
     Moral (A):
What doesn’t ascend stays put in the end.
     Moral (B):
If it ain’t broker’d, don’t Styx it.

Runcibl'd Spooner: After Swine

Protestor
with Knife

Lightly freckled:

pretty girl.
     Slightly speckled:
gritty pearl.
     Moral:
It’s not nice to fool Mother Nacre.

The Placozoa Chronicles, Episode 43: No Man's Land (Two)

Protestor with
Crossbow

     Ep. 43: A L O A Z P O C: Alo'a, Zpoç-

Decamping Zpoçlandia...? Pity.
Still, you split...? You submit to this ditty:
"On your mark (it's been swell)...
get set...hula like hell!
So: Alo'a, Zpoçlandia City!"

Runcibl'd Spooner: F(l)ight (K)night

'Tis sweeter than vino --

Protestor
with Bow

a Zinfandel keg.
The taste of honey
     Ex-pugilist Gene...? No
"all in": Shake a leg!
The haste of Tunney
     Moral:
Who prizes Manuka…?
That guy’s a palooka.

Runcibl'd Spooner: Golden Minors Come to Dust

Protestor with
Boomerang

“Don’t get all hot ‘n’ bother’d. 

That’s just pyrite,” colliers shout. 

Fool’s gold

     The dealer takes two cards. 

I raise. The undead cry, “We’re out!” 

Ghouls fold

     Moral:
Better lead than dead.