The Rules of the Games (A Nonsense ABC)

To win at Acey-Deucey, 
just hang loose! Play loosey-goosey!
Such state’s achiev'd, it’s now believ'd, 
binge-viewing “I Love Lucy.”

Who’d play great games of Bocce 
first must migrate to Karachi,
there to register as one “Monsieur 
Wladziu Liberace.”

To dominate in Chess 
(chess is a challenge, I confess),
requires, first off, your rivals doff 
unpleasant Chechen peasant dress.

Who’d call the shots at Draughts 
should swipe some decommission'd rafts –
or purchase some from my old chum 
who works as counterman at Schraft’s.

A Euchre win’s your goal...? 
Abandon random rigmarole.
Begin by sitting, briskly knitting, 
‘neath a Tlingit totem pole.

Your kids you’d beat at Fish...? 
You must three times repeat this wish:
“That each one plays like Helen Hayes, a
nd not like Dot or Lill’an Gish.”

They're chary to begin 
even a friendly game of Gin.
And who can blame 'em, for the game im-
pales: they take it on the chin.

To “first” in Hare and Hounds 
takes more than six or seven rounds.
If you’re the hare, exhibit flair: 
railroad your rivals out of bounds!

Hear “I Spy…something yellow”...? 
All’ll be cool if you’ll but bellow:
“What’s that in your hand...? A Krugerrand...? 
Ah, so: it’s Limoncello!”

No proper Janggi tourney 
may be won without a journey.
You are not Korean...? I’m foreseein’ 
hirein’ an attorney.

Who loves Kings in the Corner 
must (unless he’s born a fore’gner)
learn the state of play while sitting (say) 
with Muffet or young Horner.

You’ll love relearning Ludo. 
First, though, take a class in judo.
Then (though it’s not nice) nick both the dice -- 
lest mucho ‘scudo you’d owe.

Were mastering Mahjong 
to sound its sultry siren song,
grab sev’ral tiles – indeed, grab piles and piles! 
(Would I direct you wrong...?) 

Who’d shine at Nine Men’s Morris, 
while avoiding suff’ring tsoris.
merely needs to own: “I’m not alone.” 
Relax, friend! Join the chorus!

To medal in Othello 
calls for top-notch personnel. Oh,
yeah! And ev’ryone, when all is done, 
says you’re one med’lin’ fellow.

To mold Parcheesi mavens, 
certain states establish havens.
Just check into one! Before you’re done 
you’ll quench Parcheesi cravin’s.

You’d take the cup at Quoits, 
which first-place trophy was Detroit’s...?
You’ll first replace the trophy case, 
which case was formerly Jon Voigt’s.

One’s best approach to Risk...? 
Keep all your operations brisk!
Each piece apace you must deploy – 
and then destroy the royal fisc!

The winning round in Scrabble 
will attract no hacks or rabble.
And the dudes who win all go “all in.” 
It’s only duds who dabble.

You’d mess about with Twister...? 
You had better watch it, mister!
For your threadbare bott be not the spot 
to cultivate a blister.

Your Uncle Wigg’ly player 
(nor be none known to me feyer)
wanders in a rut and’s nutty – but…
I’ll neither “Yea!” nor “Nay!” her.

Who likes Paletti, Villa  
(or vice versa) often will a-
pprove some other games with stranger names – 
‘Charibdis,” say…or ‘Scylla.’

Who’d set his sights on War...? 
None but a nincompoop, Senor,
would grab a gun. He’ll find no fun 
is had upon a foreign shore.

Who wins her “ins” in Xeko 
sleeps on sheets of Marimekko.
Plus, she also owns five valve trombones 
and keeps a gekko gecko.

You wish to win at Yahtzee...? 
First, avoid the paparazzi:
Most are hotsy-totsy, all ex-Nazi! 
Join your local ROT-C!

Zoom Schwartz Profigliano. 
Is this game for real…or guano...?
It’s for real (no schmooze), oft play'd with booze. 
(Do not play man’-a-mano.)

Royals Fill Phil's Royal Phil: a Nonsense Rhyme (from What A's Not For)

Phil's flautists -- four flutes -- include pairs of galoots,
noble guys in from British Guyana.
Phil's sections of oboes consist of ex-hobos --
ones knighted by Princess Diana.

Phil's strings -- viols and 'cellos? Bow'd silly by fellows
whose grandsires were barons and earls.
Phil's bass clarinet's a blasé baronet.
There's scant room in Phil's woodwinds for churls.

Phil fields tympani -- three! -- each a Spanish Grandee.
Are they gifted? Senoras sigh, "Si!"
Phil's contrabassoon? She's a mounted dragoon
who once duel'd with Don Dirk of Dowdee.

For performance on snare, Phil books charges d'affaire
missing limbs lost in Greek civil wars.
Phil's third tambourine was a Kurdistan Queen.
(Matinees, Pearl performs on all fours.)

In on Spanish guitar sits a kin of the Tsar:
Yuri high-tail'd it, pre-Revolution.
Phil's baritone uke is a former archduke.
(Morrie's mom's Dutch; his pa's an Aleutian.)

Phil fans consorts of saxes around an arch'd axis.
Sopranos? Counts! Tenors? Contessas!
And on German celeste: me! (Along with the rest,
I embody Phil's motto: "More Less Is.")

Tillerson Tells Moron Jokes (More Drumpf Nonsense)

Why does the moron prove a dreadful head of state?
Because when just a tot the fellow's not allowed a mate.

Why does the moron daily briefings fail to study?
Because he's not a clever lad, nor's never had a buddy.

Why does the moron white supremacy defend?
Because when but a child he's reconciled to have no friend.

Why did the moron a misogynist become?
Because when he was young he never got to know his Mum.

Why does the moron fail to discipline his ego?
Because alone he's stayed; he's never played with an amigo.

Why does the moron bully, bluster, boast and bellow?
Because when yet a youth he'd grown uncouth without a fellow.

Why does the moron suffer poisonous grand mal?
Because friends were forbidden to this kid: he had no pal.

And why does the moron go through all of the above?
Because he's told, "Go for the gold! Forget the freakin' love."

Zen and Zoroaster: a Nonsense Rhyme (from AmalgaMates)

So: sprack Zarathustra? No! 'Mum' was the word.
And since nada Z uttered, 'twas nada we heard.
Proving overly close-mouthed, as still as the grave,
Z vouchsafed us no greeting -- not ceding a wave.

So: sprack Zarathus-? Nope! I deemed the dude dumb.

Z turned tacitly tongue-tied: the word remained 'mum.'

Zara's bouche bided buttoned. his pie hole stayed shut.

All channels of intercommunion were cut.

So: sprack Zara-? Nossir! Not even a whisper

(thus spurning our learning if Z were a lisper).

Z's soundlessness smacked of the uber-laconic:

no sonorous speeches; no spiels untrasonic.

So: heard we Z sounding the word of God? Nein!

Nor no word of Man neither. We'd nothing, in fine,

to display for our minding, unbinding our ears.

(Zoroastrianism's gone soft, it appears.)