At Arles (ask
any ardent sergeant), alch’mists’ apelings ‘ave no argent.
I’m Albert of
Saxe-Coberg-Gotha, once dubb'd “Al, Prince Consort.” (Quotha!)
Bath’s the
burg, Brits’ Baed’kers note: bare boatswains’ bairns bleat, “Blast! No boat!”
C’est moi? Alceste, le misanthrope. Je
m’appelle Al. Mais oui; je mope.
How come? Because
in Coromandel chandlers’ cubs cry, “Crap!
No candle!”
I’m Aldhelm,
Anglo-Latinist. Just call me Al. Do! I insist.
Down Deale way,
where I’d duly ventured, dentists’ daughters die undentured.
I’m Alexander. (Ain’t
I great?) Please call me Al. (It’s ‘Lex’ I hate.)
In Deale, despite
laments and kvetchings, etchers’ enfants
earn no etchings.
Alfalfa,
masked? A “Stymie”d Rascal? I ain’t frickin’ Eddie Haskell.
Fact is: Frisco’s
(also Berne’s), few florists’ fils
effect no ferns.
I’m Algernon C.
Swinburne, bard. My pen name’s ‘Al.’ See: here’s my card.
I’ve gazed, in
Ghent, ‘pon ghastly scenes;: no grocers’ goslings garner greens.
I’m Al-Hakam,
the Caliph, who you shall hail
Al. (My eunuchs do.)
Heed Houston’s
horrid habitats; her hatters’ half-pints have no hats.
I’m Ali Baba (God
Is Great!) For short, it’s Al, and, may I state,
in Indore,
indoors, it ain’t nice: its iceman’s imp cries, “I’ve no ice.”
I’m Al-Jons
“Ste-Jeanne” Jones. At home, though, always Al. Our garden gnome
in Junee jeers
at jaded folks whose jesters’ juniors jaw, “No jokes!”
I’m
al-Khowarizmi. The babes just call me Al. When near the neighbs
of Kush, one
kens (I know: it’s kloddish) klezmers’ kids keen, “Gosh! No Kaddish!”
I’m Allen
Iverson, ex-Sixer. (Still, “The Answer” ain’t no Knick, sir.)
Lantz? Look
close: a God loves jocks, no locksmith’s lambs be latchin’ locks.
I’m Almodad. My
Dad’s called Smem. My nickname’s ‘Al.’ My apothegm?
Imagine mutts
‘mongst mack’s menages: moms’ mites moan, “I missed massages.”
I’m Allnut
(“Nutz”) Chanel III. Mon nom est Al.
In Nome, I’ve heard
(enough to know
it’s not uncanny). Nursemaids’ nips? No naps! No nanny!
We’re Aloysius
from Gonzaga. Call us Al! Attend our saga!
Oft in hard
Falls, oft in soft Springs, oblates old disown odd offsprings.
I’m Alphonse,
Comte de Poitiers. Foes pronounce it ‘Pal.’ (They’re otiose.)
Phnom Penh pals
post re pit’ful scenes; “Poor penmen’s prog’ny pine, ‘No pen.’”
I’m Al Qosh
Aref, from Iraq. So: call me Al. So: there’s this block
in Qatar where
queer quarr’lsome sorts quote quarr’men’s quints, “Requir’ed: quit quartz!”
I’m Al
(“Right!”) Braithewaite, ombudsman. That’s right: “Right”’s Al. He’s just begun
his reign in
Rab, where rabble rale, “Yeah: ragmen’s runts rate rude regalia.”
I’m Alsace
Hapsburg, billionaire. Al trades as Al. While in St. Clair,
Al spots sad
scenes (so sad Al’s feeling): shoppers’ shrimps shan’t score sans stealing.
I’m Altair
Browne, named for a star. ‘Tair’s true tag? Al. ‘Tair’s turf? Tokar,
where tough
teen thugs maintain, through grins, that “tinkers’ tots touch (tsk!) no tins.”
I’m Alumemnon
Silverstein, or Rabbi Al. I ought not whine
But…umps in Ur? Well- (usu’lly)
cladded. Umpires’ urchins?
Underpadded!
I’m Alvah, Duke
of Edom. Friends: address me ‘Al’ What brings on bends?
In Vac, despite
vast vineyards (Pinot), vintners’ virgins vaunt no vino.
I’m Alwin L.
Jarreau. L.A., who calls me Al, would rue the day
Wa went way
weird ‘n’ wild (no good!): whine woodsmen’s whelps, “Whoa! Where’s one’s wood?”
I’m Alxer
(“Ox”) Kopay, a clone aka Al. Folks ask, “What’s flown?”
The xenagogue
at Xau well knows: the xen’gogue’s xenettes’ xis and rhos.
Alypius (that’s
me!) I chose the handle Al. Do you suppose
yon Yozgat’s
just like Yap? You’ll learn: Yap’s yogi’s young’uns yen; they yearn.
I’m
Alz-…Alzhiem-…Alz-… Don’t forget: I’m (let’s zee)…Al! (Zay! Haz we met?)
At Zamz,
alzough zuch zeems zans-real, zere, zen priezts’ zipzterz? Zero zeal!
Al…oha!
