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Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Alpha Betes or 26 Animal Elites (A Nonsense ABC)

The Apogeeraffe? Too high-handed by half!


“Eyes right, wheat! Lean left, chaff!” barks he -- naffer than naff.

(Doth his rod and his staff comfort? Don’t make me laugh.)

The Boffolo roam. We'd so hoped they’d stay'd home.

They forego brush and comb and, like raths label’d ‘mome,’

they outgribe when in Rome, tagging Saint Peter’s dome.

The Charge d’Afferret, though 24-caret,

just sent back the claret, a vin not sans merit.

Sighed he, “I daren’t dare it.” (The wait staff shall share it.)

The Deepseal’s psychosis won’t yield to hypnosis,

thus nobody knows why His Gnosis cries, “No, Sis.”

(I’ve heard this prognosis perturb’d his proboscis.)

The Emperorang has abandoned our gang.

Why? The Fat Lady sang. He: “I’d pass without pang.”

She: “All out let it hang!” –  i.e., “Don’t give a dang!”

The Firstplaice’s firms corner angiosperms,

feed the world – on his terms. He gives cereals perms,

calls legumes “mes les‘germs.’” (On his house, plagues of worms!)

The Genuineocerous? Petty bourgeoise, sirrahs!

Calls his wife “La-a-ahzarus.’ Once toured the Bosporus

(in a currach – no bus) with Cher, Ram Das and us.

The Inside Traccoon’s booked a full afternoon

in his club’s billiard room, whining, “Whar’s me toime flune?”

(Such a pear-shaped maroon’s earned “a trip to the moon.”)

The Jupiterns’ kid mails home pics from Madrid.

She’ll not Facebook her vid like her kid sisters did.

Keeps the negatives hid. (Of her ilk we’re well rid.)

The Keyttiwake’s wife collects faux Duncan Phyfe.

With such stuff her roost’s rife. Keens Ms K, “’Tis me life!”

(Her bids cut like a knife: here she hollers, “Stop, ‘theif’!”)

The Lezruph-Tew Weevils cavort just like Knievels.

Friends call ‘em “Les Gleefuls.” Of chutzpah they’ve treefuls.

(Come Spring, we’ll see seafuls. My wife deems ‘em “deevils.”)

The Magnacum Louse, scoundrel, bounder and souse,

craves a “less mature” spouse. He intends to trade “vows”

with his frau’s blousy housemaid, Ms. Scarlett O’Strauss.

The Notbadger’s mater’s an ex-corp’rate raider

aka Dot Vader. To cash out, they paid her,

the witch. (We all hate her – though most would still date her.)

The Optimuskrat calls his tie “Nick Cravat.”

The guy’s, likewise, “like that” with Burt Lancaster’s hat.

When he’s asked, “Where’s it at?” he replies, “Laundromat!”

The Parve Gnu summers in haunts home to Hummers.

She’ll brawl with all comers. She castigates plumbers,

machinists and mummers. Her heart’s so hard. (Bummers!)

The Qualiteal’s valet – who co-owns a chalet

in northeastern Calais with Megan Mullally –

moonlights at the ballet far out in the Valley

to help the Halal Ladies Aid. (What a pal, eh?)

The Reagle’s arranged for her sex to be changed.

Cracks her husband, “Deranged? Nah! Just faintly ‘unhainged,’

though her scalp’s grown so manged that we’ve now grown estranged.”

The Staytadee Hart endows priedieus at Chartres,

twelve thought objects of art till the things fell apart.

(The frugal ol’ fart should have bought ala carte

at the Old Spitalfields or the Merchandise Mart.)

The Toppadee Lion stalked Conan O’Brien.

The pair met while high on some ‘shrooms neo-Mayan.

I’ve ne’er seen such cryin.’ (Would you care to buy in?)

Ubear chaired the board at both Chrysler and Ford –

gigs which hauled in a hoard. “Still,” sighed Ubear, “I’m bored,”

(When he died -- thank you, Lord! -- rival share prices soared.)

The VIPeacock channels Theo van Gogh.

“Getting laid’s now a lock: all the chicks on our block

really dig it. You grok? You’ve not tried it? Don’t knock!”

The Wowl went away. He’s been missing since May.

Where? His lawyers won’t say. (Were he kidnapped, who’d pay?

Do you know how to pray? You’re agnostic? Oy vay!)

The Xanadugong claims he’s “done nothin’ wrong.”

Nowt illicit…as long as one discounts the bong…

and the jaunts to Hong Kong with his steno, Ms. Wong

(of the silver sarong?) He was seen…in her thong!

He’ll be gone before long. (Same ol’ dance; same sad song.)

Yakohinoor sleeps. Christians give him the creeps

(“Feed me lambs! Feed me sheeps!”) As he sows, so he reaps.

Karma’s playing for keeps. (He who reads of him weeps.)

Zebravado (the lout!) feels he’s fin’lly found out

what it’s really about: “…shekles, shaggin,’ great clout,

plus some hooch fer yer mout’ durin’ stretches o’ drought…”

Listen closely! No doubt you can yet hear him shout,

as his doomed soul heads sout’ on the Abaddon route:

“Dammit! All this, for nowt…?”

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