"How About You?" Redux

There’s long been enthusiasm for altering one particular 
line in the Lane and Freed pop classic "How About You," 
a standard list song -- specifically the line running, 
“…And Franklin Roosevelt’s looks give me a thrill…” 

Here's the original:

"I'm mad about good books, can't get my fill.
And Franklin Roosevelts’s looks give me a thrill...”

Now for several variants -- abecedarially constrained -- 
exploring what's possible:

And Agee’s wordplay books' palindrome skill…
And Brice as Baby Snooks, mischievous fille...
And croustades Julia cooks using fresh dill...
And dreck Drumpf deems "deluxe" (Pence plays Don's shill)...
And Epstein’s address books. That guy was swill…
And 'flux' phonated 'flooks' -- sonic'lly shrill...
And gents who groan "gadzooks!" (Be these guys ill...?)...
And hearths with inglenooks -- maybe a grille…
And iron grappling hooks. (SEALs know the drill.)...
And Jew's harp Konzertstücks -- last on the bill...
And Karpov’s castl’d rooks. Will he...? He will…
And Lewis Carroll's nook -- salacious! (Still...)...
And Madoff, king of crooks. What's in his will...?
And news that songs have hooks I must distill...
And -oses – dextr’s 'n' fruct’s – soon make one ill…
And prayers like "Ave Crux!" bring about nil... 
And quiet overlooks --valley or hill…
And Rorschach comic books penn'd with a quill…
And Sholem Asch's schnooks ain't from Brazil... 
And tours like Captain Cook's, book'd with no frill...
And utter’d gobbl’ygooks (some with a trill)...
And Viet Nam’s Chinooks, fashion'd to kill…
And watching “Our Miss Brooks” -- Connie 'n' Phil…
And Xerxes, Persian Dux, misplaced his zill…
And Yellowknife’s Canucks -- Cedric and Jill…
And Zippy’s strip still looks drafted by Bill… 

Hommage a Mike Wilbon in '-il's, '-on's 'n' '-esses'es

"What fills the bill…? Eubonics will," 
professes Casaubon.
"Who spills no swill…? Hugh Bonneville," 
assesses Eleanor Bron.
“What kills a chill…? Swill'd tonics will," 
confesses Bon', James Bon'.
“My pills are bonbons fill’d with dill,” 
finesses Dot's* "Big Blon'.”
Each thrills: "Mike kills in dresses 
donn'd in vaudeville in Bonn."

     * Wit Dorothy Parker

He Knows What He Likes

‘Tis comme il faut that Wolfgang chose art.
(Which Wolf…? Amadh A. S. (“Wolf”) Sartre.)
So: Aunt Flo (we’re told she knows art)
crows, "Wolf’s glows -- his beaucoup beaux-arts --
most unlike Great-uncle Joe's art -- 
calendars with 'ho's-in-hose art.”
(Asks each poser: “D'you suppose art
apropos of Wolf's rondeaus art
blows away Joe’s status quo's art…?)

Homagee Jon Agee

     The
Jon plying palindromes...? That Jon you know.      
     Here’s fif- 
teen Agees -- anagrams. Bid each “Hello.”

     Jane

Goe, niece of Jon’s and a bit of a ‘ho. 

     Voi-

la! Meet Jean Ego, the pseudo Poirot.                                      

     The

gypsy cum bard e. e. jango makes rhymes.                                          

     E. J.

Genoa salts his salamis with limes.

     Gee! An 

O. J.! (An Orenthal James substitute.)

     J, age

one, squats Luvs-swaddl’d. (That toddler’s so-o-o-o-o cute.)                                      

     Jo, a

gene: lots of chromosomes – quite a few doz.                                      

     Og, nee

J. A., Cro-magnon bride. (Bedded her cuz.)

     Geo/

Jean (George/Jeanine), as hermaphrodite sex'd. 

     J. (E...?) 

A.: gone – but track’d through a milk-carton text.

     Miss

Agee – Go, Janee! – the pompom queen. (Rah!)                                     

     Joe 

Egan, Beau’s Irish twin. (Egan go bragh!)                                        

     Could

Ogee Jan’s treatments grace windows uptown…?                               

     No J.

Agee’s one fate Jon must take “lying down.”                                            

     -jee,

Goan (no name, honorific attach’d).

     He’s half

Hindu, half Portuguee (sic): sri unmatch’d.                                   

Songs for My Father or 37 Views, Via Shirlyrics, of Sev'ral Good Ships

The Shirlyric is a new poetic form consisting of quatrains with lines of 7 + 9 + 4 + 10 syllables, with the lines rhyming AABB. The first line of each quatrain is always a unique mutation of the opening line of the iconic Temple lyric "On the good ship Lollipop."

On the good ship Ali, Pop,
watch Muhammad: he's a spinning top.
Young Cassius Clay...
dances rope-a-dope in corps de ballet.

On the good ship Bali, Pop,

fans of wayang at Denpasar stop,
hear gong kebyar…
then head home to pawn their twelve-string guitar.

On the good ship Bialy, Pop,
it's a fast trip to the bagel shoppe.
Some lox, a smear...
then next door for kosher bottles of beer.

On the good ship Brolly, Pop,

you hear “…drip…drip…” but you feel no drop:
your bumbershoot...
keeps the moisture off your seersucker suit.

On the good ship Cali, Pop,

The cartel’s hip: you’re a narco cop!
You’d best behave...
lest you wind up in a Cristo Rey grave.

On the good ship Cholly, Pop,

Count Cassini pens his gossip slop.
Society...
doesn’t mind he holds no doct'ral degree.

On the good ship Collie, Pop,

Captain Lassie serves up mutton chop.
No dog food here:
Captain Lassie makes that doggedly clear.

On the good ship Colly, Pop,
sailor/colliers, each with pail and mop,
scrub clean each deck...
When all shine, tars get their traveler's check.
  
On the good ship Dali, Pop,
Sal paints pictures with a riding crop.
This Catalan...
is Surrealism's renaissance man.

On the good ship Denali, Pop,
politicians standing near the top
can see from there...
a Eurasian (not a Kodiak) bear.

On the good ship Dolly, Pop…

On the good ship Folly, Pop…

On the good ship Frawley, Pop,

Fred and Ethel (subs for mom and pop)
play Lucy’s chums.
Meanwhile, Desi beats his Babalu drums.

On the good ship Golly, Pop…

On the good ship Holly, Pop,

Audrey breakfasts at a jew’lry shop.
Capote knew...
how to tell ‘em long before he turn’d Tru.

On the good ship Jolly, Pop,
David's fed up with the party's top 
priorities...
like adherence to the Donald Trump sleaze.

On the good ship Kali, Pop…

On the good ship Lalli, Pop.

Was he real...? Or Finnish agitprop...?
He swung his axe...
and a bishop slew. (No legend. Just facts.)

On the good ship Lollipop,

it’s a sweet trip to the candy shop
where bon-bons play…
on the sunny beach of peppermint bay.

On the good ship Mali, Pop... 

On the good ship Mollie, Pop... 

On the good ship Molly, Pop…

On the good ship Natale, Pop...

On the good ship Ollie, Pop…

On the good ship Polly, Pop,

Captain Byrd heads to The Critter Shoppe,
to parrots sell.
(In the hold he harbors budgies as well.)

On the good ship Quali, Pop…

On the good ship Raleigh, Pop,

addicts harvest Big Tobacco’s crop.
Thick blacken’d tongues...
bloat as cancer eats through tummies and lungs.

On the good ship Roncalli, Papa...

On the good ship Solly, Pop…

On the good ship Squally, Pop... 

On the good ship Svengali, Pop,

feckless artists tend to come a-cropp-.
Headlong each falls,
and the depth he sinks to always appalls.

On the good ship Tamale, Pop…

On the good ship Thali, Pop…

On the good ship Trolley, Pop,

Judy whirls and twirls like a spinning top.
She sings a song...
about a cable car like nothing was wrong.

On the good ship Volley, Pop…

On the good ship Wall-E, Pop…

On the good ship Wally, Pop...

On the good ship “Y’all Leap!” Pop…

Fatalphabet

     Schubert's
"Death and the Maiden": Franz, long dead and gone, 
     spots the
Angel of Death dead ahead. (Franz ain’t wrong.) 
     John Donne's
"Death Be Not Proud" be no deadbeat dad's pick.
     Yet those
brain-dead dead-baby jokes do leave me sick.

     In Death
Comes for the Archbishop, Cather's dead center. 
     Still, 
death camps are creepy. If sent, just don’t enter. 
     George's*
Dawn of the Dead's been done damn near to death – 
     while the
Dance -- death-defying -- of Death takes one's breath.

     * George A. Romero

     Dick
DeadEye’s not Schwenk's* DeadEye Dick. He’s from Vonn.**   
     Neither
beats Kids Dead End.*** (Rowling’s**** Death Eaters…? Yawn.)

     * W.(illiam) S.(chwenk) Gilbert 
     ** Kurt Vonnegut  
     ***  I.e., proved more successful than Sidney Kingsley's Dead End Kids. 
       **** J. K. Rowling 

     Flocks of
fellows named 'Phil'; beaucoup belles baptized 'Beth.' 
     Down the
years, in their oodles, they’ve faked their own death. 
     (Sev'ral
feign’d death from drowning; some OD'd on meth.) 

     Of the 
great Grateful Dead's grim death grips and death grimaces,
     which are
dead giveaways…? Jerry! Let him assess!

     It’s
me, in a dead heat (with Owsley,* of course) 
     for the
title "Miss Dead-" (not to beat a dead horse) 
     "-head, Death
Valley" is fated to play a dead hand. 
     (First prize…?
Death's-head tiaras -- plus gigs with the band.

     * Owsley Stanley

     Papa's* 
Death In the Afternoon's dead in the water: 
     Ernest 
bugg’d poor Baroja, opining he** oughter 
     have 
landed that Lit Prize*** instead of ol' Ern. 
     Then when
Pio agreed…? Well, the shite hit the fern. 
     Singing 
"do, dare dedi...," take care not to "give" 
     ('til you're
dead sure your giftee has not long to live).

     * Ernest “Papa” Hemingway  
     ** Pio Baroja y Nessi  
     *** The '54 Nobel for Literature

     As with
everything 'death,' being snatch’d from its jaws
     tends to 
sharpen one's focus and give one due pause.
     A
kiss of death puckers. A death knell strikes five. 
     In the
end, more dead Kennedys. (Who's left alive…?)

     Dead
Letter Departments, as deadlines draw near, 
     find them-
selves in a heat for "Dead Beat of the Year" 
     with The
One Deadly Sin Club. Such deadlocks can’t last. 
     Even
should they, the winner would finish dead last. 

     In this
death match -- a death march with twelve dead men walking – 
     as
each is already dead meat, goons stand gawking. 
     (The
kind of crude contest such ghouls prefer best 
     is when
all dance upon a -- Yo! Ho! -- dead man's chest.)

     "Let's
schlep to the shtetl," announced Great Aunt Gretel. 
     "We'll
show folks our mettle: 'tis there we shall settle. 
     Sol,
fill up that kettle. I'll brew some dead nettle. 
     (Do
bees love its petal…? By Yahweh, you bet(tle)!)

Dead on arrival (or should be, I say) 
     is de-
dovshchina. It’s the old Soviet way
     elders
disciplin’d kids wearing milit’ry dress.
     (It is
still dead of winter in Russia, I guess.)

(More fatalities to come: a work in progress)


poets    presidents    pool    pan

quiet    queen

reckoning    to rights    ringer

Sea scrolls     space    silence

Toenail tree    to rights

Unicorn     deaducation

Death Valley

Weight    wrong

FedEX    DeadX

Deddy Mizwar

zone

Crambos in '-ambo's 'n' '-ar's

Twinkle, twinkle, Mother Crambo!
Sing through wrinkles, crambo’d star!
Regale me tales with tails in '-ambo' --
Mary had a little lambo --
naming names containing ‘-ar.’

Rales deliver’d from your ambo.

Alcazar and Roseanne Barr.
Sing bamboo (but term it ‘bambo’).
Bring it, briskly – bam, bam, bambo!
Vicki Carr, the DAR.

Chowders – fish and corn and clambo.

Escobar, Felicia Farr.
Dawdle – no one gives a damnbo.
(Skip they shall your next exambo.)
Terri Garr…-dee-hardee-har-r-r-r…

Light the night with waxen’d flambeau.

Pew the Blind, John Silver (“Har-r-r-r…”).
Puns once spun by Gramp ‘n’ Grambo:
songs of spiral-slicéd hambo,
Izh (the car), Abdul Jabbar.

Make measures dactyl and iambo:

kilobar and lobular.
Let’s get down: a cuttin' jambo.
Not a gram: a kilogrambo!
Mallomar and nebular.

Don’t dare take it on the lambo.

Ottokar the First, Jack Paar.
It takes two to do the mambo;
more to clobber Viet Nambo,
Quigley’s Bar. “Au reservoir!”*

Shun ocarina, oud and oboe.

Streetcars name. Tsar’s underw’ar.
Lull me sleepwards in my prambo:
Blam…? No: quiet. (Thank you, ma’ambo.)
Vinegar…? No. wunderbar!

Sing in rhymes the climes of Rambo,

XAR and Babi Yar.
Songs of PC’d Little Sambo…?
I don’t give a tinker’s damnbo.
Do your worst, O crambo’d star.

Wrap yourself in Uncle Sambo,

Babi Yar and Zonular.
Gently – no hydraulic rambo.
Should you mention Viet Nambo,
I’ll not wonder what you are.

Twinkle, twinkle, Mother Crambo!

You’re for sure my crambo’d star!
Nailing tales with tails in -ambo --
marinara’d leg of lambo --
naming names containing ‘-ar.’

     * "Au revoir," as mockingly 
mispronounced by Lucia and Georgie 
in Benson's Mapp and Lucia novels. 

The Ballade of Barryman (Ne Lowe)

Barryman (ne
Lowe) -- he writes the
songs; he writes the 
songs... But  
me…? I write a-
bout a Knight whose
quest's unrighted 
wrongs... I    
further tell a-
bout a belle dubb’d
Wistful Nell; she 
longs... Yet  
folk still feel that
B's big deal's the  
songs.  

Barryman (ne
Lowe) -- he writes the
songs; he writes the 
songs... But  
me…? I sing a-
bout a king who
had a thing for 
thongs... I  
thereon add an 
extra tad a-
bout a lad with
bongs... Still,  
people parry: 
"B. Lowe's ware be 
songs."  

Barryman (ne
Lowe) -- he pens the
tunes; he pens the 
tunes... But  
me…? I scrawl a-
bout King Saul (a 
Juden) and his 
goons... I  
then embellish 
(with some relish) 
tales of hellish  
moons... Still,  
B. contends, "'Tis 
me who pens the 
tunes." 

Barryman (ne
Lowe) -- he pens the
tunes; he pens the  
tunes... But  
me…? I hum a-
bout a chum whose 
rants he raves in  
runes...and
then flesh out the 
part about which
B. Lowe never  
croons... Still  
B. Lowe’s friends in-
sist: "Lowe pens the 
tunes." 

Barryman (ne
Lowe) -- he inks the
airs; he inks the 
airs... But  
me…? I chant 'bout
Willy Brandt and
masks the Phantom 
wears... love's 
signs (so scant) and 
lines which pant o'er 
'mmanu'l Kant's af-
fairs. Still, 
B. Lowe thinks: "'Sno 
fair! I inks the  
airs."  

Barryman (ne
Lowe) -- he inks the
airs; he inks the  
airs... But 
me…? These hands shape 
master plans for 
fans' unanswer'd 
prayers...as-
cend the stair which
B. Lowe scares (stairs 
B Lowe rarely  
dares). Still, 
B. Lowe thinks it's 
him who inks the  
airs.  

     Who's 
Barryman (ne
Lowe) who inks the 
airs…? He stinks! (Who  
cares!) 
     Who's  
Barryman (ne
Lowe)…? He sends out 
tunes he pens to  
goons. 
     Hey, 
B. Lowe, man: hel-
lo-o-o-o! I pan your 
songs. They're shite! (So 
long!)  

Alphatulence

(Who'd, too, “discov-” the virtues of
vile vapors…? You…? You’ll pay per "Φ-e-e-ew!") 

Attend my dark Apartheid Φart. 
Beφriend nigh Starvin' Artist Φart. 
John Chapman bet
(the chap’s upset!)
The Applecart -- a φart).

Because The Clara Barton Φhart 

outsmarts The Bart 'n’ Lisa Φart, 
I list, post B
(mistakenly...?),
The Dickens/Sidney Carton Φart. 
(Plus Billy Barty's
Bach'lor Party
Boursin/Brie/Havarti Φart.)

(Napoleon...? He sold out:

Little Corp'ral couldn't hold out.
So, he dol'd out one,
he roll'd out one:
The Bonapart -- a φart).

Consider Magna Carta φarts,

Commedi-”a-h-h-h” Dell' Arte φarts.
Oui, Φrench Cheφ Child
pass’d gas (though mild):
Ms. Cuisineart -- she play'd her Φart.

Dig (do!) the DART (dans Dallas...?) Φart, 

the Dumas Pere's D'Artagnan Φart. 
Sad sackbut* Poo
dealt quite a "φe-e-e-ew"
(see D'Oyly Carte: the Φart)

     * Nanki-Poo famously assumes the

disguise of a second trombone.

Encounter gorp'd Encarta φarts.

Discount your warp'd ex parte φarts.
Note: daubs o' diar-
rhea court The A-
melia Earhart Φart.

Φast-Φreeze a Φannie Φarmer Φart...?

Just Φan Φran's Φan-... (I'd Φain not start!)
But, tho' it's Greek,
it's φar φrom chic:
The Φoul Φrat P(h)arty Φart.

Get Gertie's Star (& Garter) Φart; 

vet Bess's Porgie's Goatcart Φart:
one’s "gas passé." The other...? Hey!
An avant-gardy φart.

Plus, one Go Tell The Spartans Φart 

φells sev'ral Φartin' Dubya φarts.
And (tho' we’d pass at cribbin' classics) 
yet another Get Smart Φart.

Hark, Hark: Herr Hardy Krug'ry φarts.

Indeed, mark Harden'd Art'ry φarts.
One hears Bacall
aim'd aerosol
towards hubb' Humφ Bogart's φarts.
Φor you, a Horn & Hardart Φart. 
Φor me, a Howdy, Pardner! Φart. 
(And pardon me my askin': "How's your
Hubli-Dharwar Φart...?)

I’ve let I Beg Your Pardon φarts,

met Ich Bin Ein Stuttgarter φarts,
set Ishtar φarts,
wet Invar φarts – 
yet still no I'm Impartial Φart.

The bold Jakarta Φart sets φree

ihe cold Jumpstarter Φart. Mais oui:
It's Φrench, it's mensch,
it's "exi'stench":
The John Paul Sartre Φart.

Kids kid with Kindergarten Φarts;

they've hid their Kenyon Martin Φarts. 
(This, too's, φor kids: the wrought-
by-Kulis, bought-by-
Kulaks K-Mart Φart.

Look: a Carole Lombard φart, 

see Rich the Lion-Hearted φart...
pluth thith one hath a Lithp,
Like Quentin Crithp:
The Li'nel Bart (a φart).

Mu'mmar's Islamic Martyr φarts.

Mais, More: Med'eval Chartres  φarts.
(Please, Amadeus,
pray don't spray us
with no Moldau'd Mozart φarts.)

Ma Nature knows six Noble Gases. 
Num'ro seite's when Φess* has his
Annu'l Bean Burrito Bake-Off. Φiends warn
φriends: "Play't saφe! Φlee! Take oφφ!"
Take a pass...? 
You bet your ass! 
The Not In My Back Yard! (a φart). 

     * That’s Φess Parker, who pioneer'd the

"Wild Φrontier Φart." 

Oh, One sees Objet D'Art: a Φart, 

sees O'er the Ramparts Watch'd We Φart. 
And one (a φart what's oφφ the chart:
The Oll'ver Norville Hardy Φart. 
(Or, EΦ. EΦ. Copolla's bete noir:
One Φrom The Heart (a major φart).

Please note: Ms Dolly Parton's φartin'

jolly (NOT!) Post-Partum Φarts.
Plus, steep'd in soys 'n'
sauces hoisin 
pose the Poison Darts (pair'd Φarts).

Quick! Quit that Latin Quarter Φart 

(that one's a Quadripartite φart).
Plus, when the perp's Apu,
we're dead; we're through:
The Quik-E-Mart: a Φart.

(Resolved: I stink (like Spam):

thereφore, I am
a Duelin' Descartes Φart.)

Sanction'd are Suharto's φarts,

Six street-smart Severn Darden φarts.
Of one "effluve" 
we disapprove:
The (Deadly) Silent Partner Φart.

There's (Ae!). the Highland Tartan Φart. 

Or, try that Topsy, Part II φart. 
Dean's spiel/rant/plea –
in R. sans C.*:
You're Tearin' Me: a φart! 

     * The film Rebel Without a Cause, in

which James Dean's character famously
cries to the so-called adults in the room,
"You're tearin' me apart!"

Up your's, Unruly Upstart Φart!

Voila! Your Silvie Vartan Φart. 
Your...(Why...?)...your global Wal-Mart Φart. 
Your Avis We Try Harder Φart.

X marks The X-Files' Carter Φarts...

Yes...in New Scotland Yard are φarts,
and...Zut! The Zart (in Deutsche, 'delicate'): Das
φine und φragile, φaintly φragrant,
φairly φrugal, plainly φlagrant...
φart.

&: AAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh...

Ballade Of & For (Albeit Not By) Dave Eggers

If wishes were horses, would beggars then ride…?
Ten dishes (four courses!) ate Eggers…? Dave lied.
The knishes…? From sources Dave’s keggers can’t hide.
(“Defish” is Ms. Morse…? Is she preggers…? Whose bride…?)

Another Voyage 'Round Archaedia: Journey III

A is for Alma who’s alter’d her will. B is for Bob who is 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 who’s purchased a gun.
G is for Grace who has good days and bad. H is for Hank: calls computers “a fad.”
I’s for Inez who's deflated 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 developed a goiter. N is for Nan: claims the doorman “annoy’d” her.
O is for Oz: keeps a floozie in town. P is for Paula. Her toenails turned brown.
Q is for Quinn. Rose insists that he died. R is for Rose: claims the newspapers lied.
S is for Shirl: mixes hounds tooth with plaid. T is for Tim who pass’d. (Ulmer’s so sad.)
U is for Ulmer who’s taken up snuff. V is for Vaughn. “Vaughn! Get offa yer duff!”
W’s Walt who tells crude shaggy dogs. X is for Xavier's x-rated blogs.
Y is for Yasser. His room has no view. Z is for Zoë. Don’t know her. Do you…?