Ask the Man Who Owns One: Constrained Nonsense in Rhyme

Ask, “Who owns that recipe,
the chanterelles-with-champignons one?”
Ask, “Whose tones grace that CD,
the Ravi Shankar/Norah Jones one?” –
Ask, “Who phones that debutante,
the New York Stock Exchange / Dow Jones one?”
Yet, to learn what women want,
you have to ask the man who owns one.

Ask, “Quelle heure be early tea,
the pekoe-black-with-buttered-scones one?”
Ask, “Who’s earned her law degree,
the can’t-pay-off-her-student-loans one?”
Ask, “Whose turn to test détente,
the ‘where’d-who-hide-whose-hotline-phones?’ one?”
Yet, to learn what women want.
you have to ask the man who owns one.

Ask, “Where floats my treasured isle,
the Long-John-Silver / Billy-Bones one?”
Ask, “Where’s my surveillance file,
the UAVs-aka-drones one?”
Ask, “Who’d dare through Kut to jaunt,
the ‘Don’t-Go-Green:-Go-Gingham-Zones!’ one?”
Yet, to learn what women want,
you have to ask the man who owns one.

Ask, “Who penned Will’s tragedy,
the Lady-Mac-and-three-weird-crones one?”
Ask, “Who’ll Ness’s badge lend me,
the flashed-at-Nittis-and-Capones one?”
Ask, “Who travels with my aunt,
the loves-the-Beatles / hates-the-Stones one?”
Yet, to learn what women want,
you still must ask the man who owns one.