“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…?”
