Beyond the Laughing Buddha (from AmalgaMates)

Herein array'd be Buddhas, laid
in alphabetic chain.
They'll errors quell. (They'll dare, as well,
through zen, to entertain.)
Neglect them not! Connect each dot,*
your dharma to obtain.

     * If you speak Hindi, dots are bindis,
never marks of Cain. And if you don't speak Hindi, 
they're just dots. (Does that explain?)


ApPeale, the Asking Buddha,
proposes queries three:
[1] "How d'ya do?" [2] '' Cool! An' you...?""
[3] "What in hell's a 'Sri'...?"
(Non sequiturs, these, it occurs.
Feel free to:  [  ] dis  [  ] agree.)

BelChantz, the Burping Buddha,
eructs "As Time Goes By,"
accompanied on treble reed
by me -- don't dare ask why.
(Pair'd, formerly, with Kenny G.,
whose fing'ring's fa-a-ar from fly.)

CaTarrh, the Coughing Buddha,
whose throat conceals a frog,
sounds so-o-o-o like Satch. But here's the catch:
CaT's bill'd "The Well-vet Fog."
(Not on your life will "Mack the Knife"
CaT caterwaul en blog.)

DohSupp, the Doping Buddha,
your limner* limns as lean:
a shade, a ghost, "DohS" overdos'd
on metamphetamine.

     * Me: Sgt. N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee
(the N's for 'Nicotine').

EnGrave, the Etching Buddha --
here tann'd a Van Dyke brown,
declares, "My dear, why not wait here...?
I'll bring my etchings down" --
EnG's poach'd lampoon of Thurber's 'toon.
(EnGrave's a knave, a clown.)

FiNesse, the Frailing Buddha,
picks six-string licks galore.
FiN's added string? It's "just the thing":
FiN's motto's "More is more."*
Like mentor Seeger, FiN's "de reegueur" --
railing 'gainst the war.

     * FiN's new octet's The Buddhaettes:
none like 'em heretofore.

GroTesk, the Grinning Buddha
apes Carroll's Cheshire Cat.
Long tail...? Long gone! Claw'd paws...? Withdrawn!
Such traits show great "eclat."
GroTe's jaw's in view because ('tis true)
GroTe's face won't fade. ('S'too fat!)

HarRumph, the Huffing Buddha,
employs a gas mask bong
to toke his Rhino. (Like your wino,
'Rumph well knows it's wrong.
This only shows how 'Rumphy goes
along to get along.)

IgGnatz, the Itching Buddha,
hosts gnats like Drumpf boasts dough --
thought lacks, withal, The Donald's gall,
lies, braggadocio,
pathologies, cabalas...Jeez!
Though Ig stays, Drumpf must go!

Jean-Joque, The Joshing Buddha,
does stand-up in his youth;
a spell, as well, at SNL.
(He kill'd at House of Ruth.)
Still...Hope he's not, because he's got
Gil Gottfried's lack of couth.

KhaRote, the Kvetshing Buddha:
complaints, complaints, complaints!
(But, after all, I must recall:
bodh'sattvas make poor saints.
"No Mother T. be me," warns he.
"An even temper taints.")

LeTharge, the Lolling Buddha,
looms large down Sarge's Tap.*
LeTh lacks Lot's pep; well-earn'd's his rep:
he's call'd "Nocturnal Pap."

     * That's Sgt. N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee
(the N here stands for 'Nap.')

MoTette, the Moulting Buddha:
skin-slough-'n'-shed his thing.
MoTe's strips all while he's strumming viol
and humming "Moultin' Swing."
Finessing that -- faith's "tit-for-tat" --
The Christ scats "Ring-a-ding..."

NouVelle, the Noshing Buddha:
His ma's Subbotnik Jew.
Says Mom: "NouVelle, mein zun: zup well!
Nor nein neglect to chew!"
(She adds as well: "You're pale like hell."
Replys NouVelle: "Says you!")

OyVey, the Oozing Buddha:
from eyes 'n' ears, from nose,
from butt 'n' lips slick syrup drips.
Quick! Fetch a pail 'n' hose!
(Of newsy ooze and such-like goos,
sick Sarah Palin knows.)

ParPhor, the Putting Buddha,
is slow to break a sweat.
But once "Puttz" does, he's sunk -- because
a bogie's worst when wet.
(I call him "Puttz" and "Gutz" and "Buttz"
and "Clutz." But "Nutz"...? Not yet.)

QuiQuid,* the Quarr'ling Buddha.
"QuiQ" lives to fight. "F**k flight!:
I argue pro and con; I blow
hot/cold; I row left/right."

     * 'Quidquid' is Latin for 'whate'er.'
(I trust that sheds some light.)

RapPunz, the Rapping Buddha,
won't shout in Saxon tongue.
Nor seek do freaks to speak the Greek
from which RapP's raps be wrung.
Still...RapP be boss: check out that cross
which 'round RapP's neck be hung.

SaShay, the Sleuthing Buddha,
inveighs his days away:
"I'd dare -- today! -- Poirot portray...
if Pinter'd penn'd the play."
Al Finney's cry...? "Just let him try."
(No comment from Suchet.)

TouChé, the Toddlin' Buddha.
On "Toush" Chi* chose to dote.
Is up Chi's thumb? You bet! (In sum:
TouChé's still hip...hot...haut!)

     * To learn that 'Chi''s 'Chicago,' I
suggest you read this note!

UreOwtt, the Umping Buddha.
Team's fate...? Check, mate, his name!
How well we'll do is subject to
the way he calls the game.
But, safe or out, he's still a lout.
His calls are always lame.

VaMooze, the Voting Buddha,
vents, "Vote the varmints out!"
'Tis understood VaM's motive's good.
Wields VaM the ample clout...?
('Tis moot: PAC Suit's are resolute;
our future's much in doubt.)

WahrRoom, the Warring Buddha.
In genocides he's starr'd.
If peace broke out, there's little doubt
WahrR's record would be marr'd.
(My view's here voiced: that WahrR be hoist
upon his own petard.)

XingXiao, the Xysting Buddha,
sits 'sconced in his arcade.
Its rostrum spins: so, for his sins,
Xing swivels in the shade.
"If 'tweren't for me," whines Xing, "I'd be
lieutanant senior grade."

YoLande, the Yachting Buddha,
sits watch on Empress decks.
YoL sports a cap -- though for his nap
defers to turtlenecks.
(When naptime's done, he'll join the fun
exploring sunken wrecks.)

ZoneOwtt, the Zzzzz-zing Buddha?
Tres fab at grabbing Zs.
Those shades of his permit this wiz
to "rest his eyes." (Oh, plee-e-e-eease!)
His wife agrees: since Xmas, he's
depleted her chablis.

Thus ends this Book of Buddhas.
I've exhausted six and twenty.
Yessir! Ev'ry letter -- plus, what's better,
proffer'd puns aplenty:
a reprimand for skeptics...and
a jog for cognoscenti.

Buddha Codha

AtChoo, the Arctic Buddha:
his agony's untold.
His raiment -- rime -- some see as slime.
AtCh calls it 'Eskimould.'
(Result...? AtChoo's well troll'd.)

StooLoose, the Soiling Buddha,
dreads dirty-di'per days.
No puerile pup, "StooL" messes up
in 'adultlescent" ways.