of the final line of the final stanza of the poem
"Chili Doggerel," each by metrical necessity a
single syllable, are to be supplied by the reader,
as is the selection of any requisite punctuation.
Pins and needles! Eyes and hooks!
Chill'd January's tinctures? Slates,
with grey displays of sleets. She looks
a climate prime for skis and skates.
One chili pepper celebrates
by donning earmuffs, scarf and gloves
to undertake -- not guff he hates
but thin-ice skating -- stuff he loves.
Pins and needles! Hooks and eyes!
Fleet February's twenty eight,
in falling three days shy, supplies
less time to venerate a mate.
One chili pepper's running late
delivering his valentine.
He must (and soon!) accelerate:
"Get goin'!" That's his bottom line.
Hooks and eyes and nuts and bolts!
Mad March's Ides can’t hide
Spring's flowers.
Lads towards love cavort like colts,
big blossoms copped from blooming bowers.
Thefts like these take sev'ral hours,
maybe less. (No more than two.)
One chili's savoir faire ne'er sours:
just hear him blurt, "These buds? For you!"
Hooks and eyes and bolts and nuts!
Escaping April's Easter eggs?
Nope! Basket filled, one chili struts,
sashaying on his own two pegs.
"I must make mucho more," he begs.
"My ankle biters love 'em so,
nor's FDA releasing regs
suppressing eggs. I say, ‘Let's go!’"
Bolts and nuts and forks and
spoons!
Which gifting day in May's the worst?
De Mayo Cinco France impugns;
preferring May Day -- dawning first.
"The best," rants William Randolph Hearst,
"is World Press Freedom Day -- the third."
(One chili, Mother's gifts dispersed,
orates. He prates, "They're all
absurd!")
Bolts and nuts and spoons and forks!
In June, platoons of grads and dads
(though tagged by family dweebs and dorks)
get gifts -- designer ties in plaids.
One chili'd rather troll for shads.
With six-packs in his tackle box,
he trawls among lush lily pads.
(These catches cache shad roes, shad lox.)
Spoons and forks and Spocks and Kirks!
Jejune July's supremacists
malign, ‘mid flags ‘n’ fireworks,
more recent settlers in their midsts.
One chili simply coexists.
Like Pete and Woody belts out he
(in dissing these recidivists),
"...this land was made for you and mee-e-e-e!"
Spoons and forks and Kirks and Spocks!
The puns of August rake their rays
'cross circus clowns in pleated frocks
who juggle balls come circus days.
But do not deem one chili gay
(his frock and fright wig notwithstanding):
chann'ling Cabaret's Joel Grey
he juggles souls. (His job's demanding.)
Kirks and Spocks and things and wings!
September's song's a song sung blue.
September's back-to-school bell rings;
its tolling telling, "Summer's through."
One chili knows what's next to do:
through textbook stores' remainder bins
he trolls for volumes nearly new,
discov'ring sev'ral, for his sins.
Kirks and Spocks and wings and things!
October's tail toasts Halloweenies
with the nosh that season brings:
hot cocoas, caviar on blinis,
piping potions poured by genies
and adored by (say) one chili.
(Pepper plants prefer martinis?
Nope. Such cynicism's silly.)
Wings and things and needles and pins!
Five Thursdays this November shows.
Four follow when the month begins
on Thursday (as this year it "does.")
One chili, sporting Pilgrim clothes
(a practice not unknown in peppers),
carves a turkey, for he knows:
like Jesus, he's to dine with lepers.
Wings and things; a pin, a needle!
Deep December's holiday
persuades all, "Prance to pipe and 'feedle'!
Sing 'Cuckoo! Callooh! Callay!'"
One chili, like his mate in May,
confronting such absurdity,
eschews "Noel!"s and opts to say,
"____ ____ ____" (in a word -- or three).
In June, platoons of grads and dads
(though tagged by family dweebs and dorks)
get gifts -- designer ties in plaids.
One chili'd rather troll for shads.
With six-packs in his tackle box,
he trawls among lush lily pads.
(These catches cache shad roes, shad lox.)
Spoons and forks and Spocks and Kirks!
Jejune July's supremacists
malign, ‘mid flags ‘n’ fireworks,
more recent settlers in their midsts.
One chili simply coexists.
Like Pete and Woody belts out he
(in dissing these recidivists),
"...this land was made for you and mee-e-e-e!"
Spoons and forks and Kirks and Spocks!
The puns of August rake their rays
'cross circus clowns in pleated frocks
who juggle balls come circus days.
But do not deem one chili gay
(his frock and fright wig notwithstanding):
chann'ling Cabaret's Joel Grey
he juggles souls. (His job's demanding.)
Kirks and Spocks and things and wings!
September's song's a song sung blue.
September's back-to-school bell rings;
its tolling telling, "Summer's through."
One chili knows what's next to do:
through textbook stores' remainder bins
he trolls for volumes nearly new,
discov'ring sev'ral, for his sins.
Kirks and Spocks and wings and things!
October's tail toasts Halloweenies
with the nosh that season brings:
hot cocoas, caviar on blinis,
piping potions poured by genies
and adored by (say) one chili.
(Pepper plants prefer martinis?
Nope. Such cynicism's silly.)
Wings and things and needles and pins!
Five Thursdays this November shows.
Four follow when the month begins
on Thursday (as this year it "does.")
One chili, sporting Pilgrim clothes
(a practice not unknown in peppers),
carves a turkey, for he knows:
like Jesus, he's to dine with lepers.
Wings and things; a pin, a needle!
Deep December's holiday
persuades all, "Prance to pipe and 'feedle'!
Sing 'Cuckoo! Callooh! Callay!'"
One chili, like his mate in May,
confronting such absurdity,
eschews "Noel!"s and opts to say,
"____ ____ ____" (in a word -- or three).
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