Unplumb'd Menagerie or Don't Know Much About Biology

My sense of the Awhl remains "awhl"fully small.
What is known of the Brylle is, by all accounts, nil.

Me re the Clampoo...? Clueless (i.e., no clue). 
Daily probes of the Droone...? Discontinued last June.

Concerning the Ehrd one hears barely a word.
R&D on the Flopt...? Ex officio: stopp’d.

Shall I shelter a Glannz...? Though I should, I've no plans.
Once endanger’d, the Hyst now's been scratch’d from that list. 

The Ilkh has no ears. (Heaven knows how it hears.)
Sure, I pooh-pooh’d the Jang...once the Fat Lady sang.

This Klangel was born on my voy'ge 'round the Horn.
The Lhugee survives by ingesting its wives.

Asked to mother the Mahnks, I balk'd: "Thanks but no thanks."
How uniquel is the Nyuk...? It’s half dog and half duck.

People visit an Ong – but they don't tarry long. 
It's reported the Phryffe lives in fear for its life.

Have I seen a Qabaz...? Don't talk rot: no one has!
Tweets and blogs 'bout the Rholld...? Evidently on hold.

A life of the Schtook fills one very small book.
One knack of the Tyghte is to hide in plain sight.

The last living Uewe died in 2002.
Yes, the Vardavalette proves a petulant pet.

The Warg "went extinct" once folks noticed it slinked.
The Xanthano can catch the Gingerbread Man. 

This Yergaroo pair intermingles its hair.
The word is: the Zhazent would love to...but doesn't.

'-Ling' Weenies

Aetheling:
heir to a king (not a queen).
Brisling:
a sprat cann'd in oil -- a sardine.

Carling:

Canadian black-label'd beer.
Darling:
my sweetie. (Though meaty, mine’s dear.)

Ealing:

where Mick meets his Rolling Stones mates.
Foundlings:
wee bairns left at rectory gates.

Groundlings:

“the stinkards” who stand in “the yard”
once referr'd to in “Hamlet,” 
as penn’d by “The Bard.”

Howling:

where Cold Comfort Farm sits enisled.
Inkling:
stands drinks at the Eagle and Child.

Jing’ling:
in Anderson’s “Sleigh Ride,” this lyric, 
once heard as nostalgic, 
now's mere atmospheric.

Keelhauling:

punishment meted to tar.
Ling Ling:
“A panda walks into a bar…”

Mayerling:

Rudolph shoots Mary Vetsera.
Nursling:
housed monks in a medieval era.

Ogling:

to stare where her breasts form a V.
Pauling:
proponent of Vitamin C.

Quisling:

his nose turn'd a tattletale brown.
Ringling:
the circus is coming to town!

Shandling:

did stand-up. (I never scor'd tickets.)
Ting-a-Ling:
cover'd by Clovers and Crickets.

Underling:

status – the least in the place.
Veiling:
a fabric of gauze or fine lace.

Whaling:

what Queequeg and Ahab and Ish-
mael slaved at while trailing 
a largish white fish.

Xest Ling:

for milling and drilling. (Who knew?)
Yuengling:
America’s family brew.

Zetterling:

resolute...? Always! Not shy –
with her “act-ling,” “direct-ling” and “lov-ling…” 
(Oh, Mai!)

But now I shan’t linger, 
lest babbling ensue:
lingonberries, linguistics, linguines: 
-lings…nu?

McTraitor Traits

Moscow Mitch. Oh, Moscow Mitch.
Why mime you Mother Russia’s bitch?
A puppet-pawn of pink-putz'd guys?
A pol in thrall to Putin’s pitch?

Who motivates you, Moscow Mitch,

to Duma dig? To demos ditch?
To plump for projects penny-wise
and dollar-wise (and ruble-rich!)?

What stimulates you, Moscow Mitch,

the Congress’s mandated niche
(Prez oversight) to char’cterize
as hoax, as huntings of the witch?

What pow’r's allow'd you, Moscow Mitch,

to scratch your monetary itch?
Who lets you, late, “aluminize”
your state, McConnovonovich?

(More treason to follow: a work in progress)

A Rabbi, A Priest and a Kangaroo Walk Into a Bar: Vocallically Constrained Variations

Kanga, Roo and a bear living under the name of Sanders 
walk into a bar...

An eastern grey named Ken G. Aroostook 
walks into a bar…

A western grey arrested for plucking a rooster* 
walks into a bar…

King Kong, a room freshener salesman and an antilopine 
walk into a bar…

Hans Küng, a roofing sales rep/part-time mohel and a mallee 
walk into a bar…
A rubber ducky, NGA rooftop marksman Uly Poe and a wallaby 
walk into a bar...
     * Not to be confused with Jack Kent's 
comic strip monarch King Aroo.

Passing: a Fancy

A Sikh and a sheik and a shaman
walk into Moe’s Tavern. “How common
is the Northern white rhino?”
asks Moe. “How should I know?”
the Sikh pleads with pique. “I’m no Brahmin.”

So Szyslak addresses the sheik.

“Is the white rhino scarce? What’s your take?”
“It’s well known that they are,”
states the sheik, “although fa-a-a-ar
more endangered’s the pink-headed drake.”

In the meantime, a consequence weird

prompts a shrug and a tug of my beard.
Both the Sikh and the sheik –
as is Moe, for Lord’s sake,
and his tavern: they’re all disappear’d.

I Get 'Em Confused

Barney Frank and Bernie Sanders.
One’s a crank and one meanders.
Both loathe drama – Shaw’s, Menender’s.
Bernie Frank and Barney Sanders.

Barnie Fracken; Burney Sand.

The one burns bright; the other’s bland.
And both (please don’t misunderstand)
are li’ble to get out of hand.

Sandor Frankel; Barnhard Burns.

One backs burial in urns
and plumps for stuff the other spurns.
Both would teach, though neither learns.

Sandy "Frank" Byrne, barberer --

in former life an arborer,
though now of thieves a harborer --
believes that sandstone's far from fur. 

Pebbles Flintstone; Edward Carnes.

One unravels; t’other darns –
and neither gathers into barns.
(But aren't you sick 'n' tired of yarns…?)

Hyram & Lowell

Hyram’s aceing a test. Lowell’s testing an ace.
He runs fliers he tries through a three-legged race.
Hyram’s booking the cooks. Lowell’s cooking the books
His report’s deem'd ill- (-egible, -egal) – by crooks!
Hyram’s counting the dogs. Lowell’s dogging the Count.
He tracks vampires and ghouls on his Lipizzan mount.

Hyram’s ducking a plane. Lowell’s planing a duck.

First he peels off its eider, bypassing the chuck.
Hyram ends with a bang. Lowell’s bang’d up the end
of a Volkswagen Beetle he bought off a friend.
Hyram’s flying the coop. Lowell coops up the flies
he extracts from an octogenarian’s eyes.

Hyram’s guarding the eggs. Lowell’s egging the guard

who requested his papers at new Scotland Yard.
Hyram’s holding the line. Lowell’s lining the hold
of his cheese-laden ship, thereby stemming the mould.
Hyram’s inking the press. Lowell’s pressing the ink.
His gall’s wrung from squashed octopi. (Why do you think?)

Hyram’s judging a paste. Lowell’s pasting a judge

with a nickel-filled condom. (He will hold a grudge.)
Hyram’s junking a post. Lowell’s posting his junk.
Look who’s liked him on Facebook! (The man is no monk.)
Hyram’s kneading the bread. Lowell’s breading his knee.
(He dusts elbows with cake crumbs as well. He’s too twee.)

Hyram’s leaving his post. Lowell’s posting his leaves,

fronds he mails to a pen pal for stems he receives.
Hyram’s milking the bees. Lowell’s “being the milk.”
(He admires Stanislavski and folk of that ilk.)
Hyram’s nursing his paw. Lowell’s pawing his nurse.
(Once she’s emptied his bed pan he’ll rifle her purse.)

Hyram orders the plaice. Lowell places an order

for heuvos rancheros at South o’ the Border.
Hyram’s pumping the iron. Lowell’s ironing the pump.
When sufficiently flat, it’s removed to the dump.
Hyram’s queering the deal. Lowell’s dealing the queer
nowt but deuces and treys. (Himself? Aces, I fear.)

Hyram’s running a race. Lowell’s racing the runs.

Will he get to the loo before soiling his buns?
Hyram’s salting a wound. Lowell’s wounding a salt –
jabbing jolly Jack Tar, though ‘twas nowt Jackie’s fault.
Hyram’s tying the knot. Lowell’s knotting the tie
he employs to destroy kittens. (Turn a blind eye!)

Hyram utters a note. Lowell’s noting an udder:

“Your sow’s teat’s too huge!” Lowell’s o’erheard to mutter.
Hyram’s voting for change. Lowell’s changing his vote.
He’s electing the train with a gravy-fill’d boat.
Hyram’s wining his date. Lowell’s dating his wine.

He pretends to pour Dom Perignon ’89.

Hyram x-rays the loo. Lowell loses the x-ray

revealing what dinosaur elbows and necks weigh.
Hyram’s yanking your chain. Lowell’s chaining your Yank.
(As to which state your Yank’s from I’m drawing a blank.)
Hyram zones through a play. Lowell plays through a zone.
(Once his dribble improves, he’ll be fa-a-a-ar better known.)

Take a Peek at the Mageek! (Behold, in Fact, a Baker's Dozen!)

Playswell bids you say "Hahwahyah! to an exciting new poetic form. Like its progenitor the haiku, the mageek is about syllable count. Unlike that ancestor, it's composition's as contrived as its forebear's is spontaneous.  


'Monster...? / Mr T's one!' 
     (Although   

          less of the    

          Magyar: more

          jus' for the
                           fun.

*  *  *  *  *

'Mitt Romney: /  "Not my time." -- R'

     "I'd an    

          Edsel be,   

          were I some

          futile A-

           -merican                 

                       car." 

*  *  *  *  *

'Illinois: / Is I ill...? No!'

     (Though Pe-
        -oria's

             playlist* I'll
             gladly fore-
                                      -go.)

     * Refers to the old media buyer's 
query "Will it play in Peoria?" (But is that 
a question anybody asks anymore?) 

*  *  *  *  *

'Woody Allen: / a lewd loony.' 
     That old
          goon married
          Soon Yi. He's
          potty, car-
        -toony. (And

                                 puny.) 

*  *  *  *  *

'Northeast / has rotten'
     winter 
           weather -- what   
        snows those un-
      -fortunates
          seem to have
                                 gotten! 

*  *  *  *  *

  

'Gilgamesh: / "I l _ _ _ ham, eggs!'

     "Oh, me,

          too -- over

          e _ _ _. Please, let's 

          fry up some!"

          Enkidu

                                          begs. 

*  *  *  *  *

‘Stravinsky / Navy skirts’
     leads to
          waves of trans-
         -vestite en-
         -listments by
          Russian com-
         -posers: the 
          subsequent 
          hazing's a 
          practice which 
                           hurts. 

*  *  *  *  *
 

'The Odyssey / doth (yes, yes!)'

     say much

          more about

          Homer than 

          uninformed 

          readers might 

                                    guess. 

*  *  *  *  *

'The Iliad...? / Ha! It lied':

     ‘Twas young

          Hektor who
          lived. 'Twas A-
        -chilles who
          (Homer says)
                              died.

*  *  *  *  *

'America: / I'm a race':

     See me

          run. When I'm

          done, not one

          alien 

          dare take my 

                              place. 

*  *  *  *  * 

'Napoleon’s / one’s pal...? No!'

     Not since

          Waterloo'd

          laid our lad

          (Elba's since 

          been his pad) 

                              low. 

*  *  *  *  * 

‘Elephants / Help! A Sten!’

       But don't 

            gun 'em...just 

            stun 'em: they've 

            left the pre-

           -serve yet a-

                             -gain. 

*  *  *  *  * 

'Alphabets / a hep blast!' 

      Still I 

           leapt, having 

           kept not one 

           letter from 

           archives so 

                            vast. 

(More mageeks to come: a work in progress) 

A Little Night Porter or Relentless Lyric Links Thirteen A1 Strophes to Brief Codetta

It was just one of those things,
just one of those almond rings,
one "boo-boo”’d blues of baritone Bing's.
Just one of those things.

It was just one of those things,
just one of hose static clings, 
one of Sinatra’s "ring-a-ding-ding"s.
Just one of those things.

It was just one of those things,
just one of Stowe's evenings,
one of those fibs your president flings.
Just one of those things.

It was just one of those things,
just one of those GOP wings, 
one of those hankies "Hawkins Falls" wrings.
Just one of those things.

It was just one of those things,
just one of gross inner springs. 
(Juan, who froze juleps 'n' Singapore Slings,
jokes: "Jus' Juan duz doze t'ings.")

It was just one of those things, 
just one of Kay's Kabibbl’y kings,*
one of those lays lauding lemonade springs.**
Just one of those things. 
      * Cf Kyser's band personnel – specifically 
one Ish Kabibble but several others as well. 
      ** Cf the Big Rock Candy Mountain

It was just one of those things,
just one of Mars’s merciless Mings, 
one of those neon nights of Beijing's.
Just one of those things.

It was just one of those things,
just one of O's Oprah blings, 
one of Paterno's pornography rings.
Just one of Joe’s things.

It was just one of those things,
just one of those queer-quizzin' stings,*
one of those riffs -- "It don't mean a thing"s.
Just one Satchmo thing. 
       * Cf the Stonewall Inn 

It was just one of those things,
just stuff that a stiff Sting sings, 
one of those tangs…like Buffalo wings.
Just one of those things.

It was just one of those things,
just uno...dos...underlings,
one of those peerless portrayals of Ving's.
Just one of those things.

It was just one of those things,
just one of those well-wax'd wings,*
one of those Xs censorship brings.
Just one of Moe’s** things. 
      * Cf the fatal flight of Icarus.
      ** X-rated film director Morris Lesse

It was just one of those things,
just one of Ma's (Yoyo's) strings, 
one of those songs with "Zing...zizzy...zing..."s,*
just one of those things... 
      * Cf "Italian Street Song" from Naughty 
Marietta.

     ...yes, it was great fun... but it was 
five plus twenty one of those things. 

Plays' 'For' Plays or A Stupundous ABBBCedarian's Delight -- from PlaysWellWithLetters

A's 'For A Faceful of Dolors.' 
Ad interim, B is ‘for Beto for verse.’
C...? C's ‘for cryin' -- nowt loud nor nowt terse.’
Meantime, D’s 'for Drumpf's fo(u)r-door'd Ford hearse.' 

E is ‘for "End Sick Pathology!"’
And, for now, F's 'fo(u)r fifths gin, fo(u)r fifths Jello.' 
G...? G's ‘forgetting that Carmelo's* yellow 
(for Herr J's** a jolly good fellow!).’

I's 'For it's one, two and three strikes: your routed!' 
while J is 'for Jon's son, the playwright.'
K forklifts forks from the road (makes 'em lay right),' 
and L is ‘for love lost in daylight.’

M is ‘for me, my RC ‘n’ my gal.’
N's ‘for nuns: they are none of the'bove.’ 
O...? O's ‘for once in your life lettuce love.’
Meanwhile, P's ‘for Pete's sake, Guv, don't shove!’

Q is 'For Queen 'n' for Qountry!' 
R is 'for "Rent, sailor! Lease!"'
S is ‘For such is the King Dome of heaven.’*** 
(Shh-h-h-h! T's 'for the secret police.') 

U is ‘For unto us chill'd wrens are born.’
V is 'for very low cost.' 
W's 'For Whom the Bell Tolls. ('Tain't for Frost.)' 
X is 'for Xenofrost, gloss’d.'

Y...? Y's ‘for your ice, a loan.’
Whereas Z is 'Del (Forza) Destino.'
(& is 'for ampersand, naturellino…'
and my last denoumentarino.) 

     * NBA all stars Carmelo Anthony and Julius 
Erving are referenced with Dr. J, misidentified 
here as Herr J  -- see footnote below. 
    ** Not to be confused with Tintin's father 
Herge but referring instead to the personage 
encountered in the stanza following. 
       *** Some critics note a failure of form here, 
while the author considers it the clinamen that 
proves it's cool.

Alliteratively Amplified Magic A-to-Z Ball Answers (Questions Optional)

Q:________________________________________________________?
A: Ask again anon, Aristotle: all answers, as always, are awry and askew.

Q:______________________________________________________________?
A: Before blatantly beginning bothersome badgering, Boethius, better bow briefly. 

Q: __________________________________________________________?
A: Candidly, conditions continue cloudy. Copernicus can’t currently comment.

Q:___________________________________________________________________________?
A: Dubiosity’s definitely done, dispelled! (Does Dr. Descartes doubt? Dammit, Doc! Don't! Dig...?!)

Q: ___________________________________________________________?
A: Enfin, Einstein, energy’s erratic. Every easy explanation ends enigmatically.

Q: ____________________________________________________________________?
A: ‘Fraid frequency’s failing, Fridugisus. Follow-up forthwith -- Friday fortnight, f‘rinstance.

Q: ________________________________________________________?
A: Generally, Galileo, generating gross grilling gets guys' gonads gainsaid.

Q:_____________________________________________________________________________?
A: Holy ho-hum, Herr Heidegger -- haven't honestly heard. (However, heckling hardly helps, huh…?)

Q: _____________________________________________________?
A: Input’s inferior, Isidore. Its interpretation is, I imagine, incomplete.

Q: _________________________________?
A: Jabberwocky’s just jargon, Junger…jamais!

Q: ____________________________ ?
A: Kindly, Kierkegaard, kill kinky koans.

Q: ______________________________________?
A: Ludicrous, Leibniz! Let’s (like) liaise later, laddie.

Q:______________________________________________________________?
A: Merlin...? Maybe Monday. Meantime, Mr. Moue, mark my mouth: “Moo-oo-oot!”

Q:____________________________________________________________________________?
A: Nope. Not now, Nostradamus. Nearer noon…? Nyet! Next November…? Nein! Numquam! (Never!)

Q: ___________________________________?
A: Oracles…? Obscure, Origen. Omens…? Outre.

Q: ________________________________________?
A: Please, Plato: pray put philosophical posers politely.

Q: ____________________________________________________?
A: Quiet, Quine! Quit querying! Quash queer questions qua quarrels.

Q: _________________________________________?
A: Request roundly rejected, Rousseau. (Right! Really!)

Q: ______________________________________?
A: Sorry, Socrates. Should’a said somethin’ sooner.

Q: ____________________________________________?
A: ‘Tis truly tough to tell, Teilhard. Try this time tomorrow.

Q: ___________________________?
A: Unanswerable, Unamuno…unless…

Q: __________________________?
A: View’s vague, Vico…very! Va-t’en!

Q: ________________________________?
A: Well would we wonder why, Wittgenstein.

Q: __________________________?
A: Xenophon…? Xeno-…XII...XI...X...

Q: _______________________________________________________?
A: Yesterday's yammering, Yockey, yields you your yearned-for “Yessir!s”

Q: ___________________________________?
A: Zeno…? Zeno?! Zzzzzz…zzzz…zz…z...zz...z...