“Alms?” asks the Abba, an anchorite, making amends,
The Brooklyn-bred
bookie makes book for his flutter-prone friends.
The caffeine-addicted
make coffee in quantums absurd.
The divorced
single mother of two must make do, dreams deferred.
The ex-employees make ends meet though they op at a loss.
Make fists,
freedom fighter, to let the whole world know who’s boss.
The feminist’s
first to make fun when her female friends marry.
The greengrocer’s grapes make the grade: “Our garnachas don’t vary.”
The governor-general makes good – as his pockets he’s lining.
The husbandman
makes him some hay while the sun keeps on shining.
“Make haste,
Hound of Heaven,: the bard Francis Thompson insists.
The headsman
can’t make heads nor tails. (“Chop I necks? Lop I wrists?”)
The interpreter makes it his business to make it look simple.
The Jesuit
jester makes jokes in a tunic and wimple.
The killer could make each Kardashian
disappear fast.
Making
landfall, the landlubber loves to make light of storms past.
The laddie
makes love to his lassie, Loch Lomond in view.
The mom’s
making mountains of molehills; she’s not unlike you.
The midget
manqué makes the most of his height (he’s an elf).
The Norwegian who's made nothing of makes a name for himself.
Making out like
a bandit, the outlaw makes off with your chest.
The octogenarian’s make-over’s make-shift – at best.
The optimist always
makes out; make of that what you will.
The plump
politician makes policy up on the Hill.
The Pope’s
making peace, though he makes it post
partisan slaughter.
The pederast
priest makes a play for the President’s daughter.
The quarryman
makes quite a splash, cannonballing from heights.
The Royalist
raves: “Pairs of wrongs (when they’re mine) can make rights!”
The symposium
student makes small talk. Such sucking up sucks.
The shark
makes short work of the slow-swimming sailor. Aw-w-w, shucks!
The senator/statesman makes sure that his state remains free.
The traitor
makes trouble by making things up – on TV.
The terrorist
tries making tracks but gets taken in tow.
The urchin
wears make-up in hopes of uploading a beau.
The vegan’s
dilemma? That veal makes a very good stew.
The waiter
makes water. (We all do: I do; you do, too.)
Is the wigmaker’s wife making waves when she wades without Wellies?
Women watching
make way while these widowers writhe on their bellies.
The X-Acto
knife expert makes ‘x’s by way of example
The yogi (named
Yul) makes you wonder: are five yamas ample?
The zodiac
makes zero sense: it’s no good in the day.
(Having first
made my marks, I must now make a clean getaway.)
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Sunday, April 22, 2018
"One ponders twin strands as one wanders through lands..." Geschlechtes or Of Kinds: A Nonsense in Rhyme
One ponders
twin strands
as one wanders through lands
where no circumspect man’s ever been.
And none more than the one
where the men are all women
and all of the women are men.
Guys are gals. Moms are Dads.
Sisters? Bros! Lasses? Lads!
Boys are girls. L’hommes are femmes. So it goes.
Hes are shes. Hims are hers.
But a question occurs:
How’s one know how one knows how one knows?
as one wanders through lands
where no circumspect man’s ever been.
And none more than the one
where the men are all women
and all of the women are men.
Guys are gals. Moms are Dads.
Sisters? Bros! Lasses? Lads!
Boys are girls. L’hommes are femmes. So it goes.
Hes are shes. Hims are hers.
But a question occurs:
How’s one know how one knows how one knows?
"Foreign Wendy, black op, hurts: so soul-sick, she..." Faux Words March: Nonsense Abecedarial Pictures at an Exhibition in Rhyme
The art exhibition's portable audio
guide said: "...A is Four And Twenty
Blanc Birds..." but the near-sighted,
hard-of-hearing art critic Ms. Orgski
heard and saw: "...A's Foreign Wendy,
Black Op, Hurts..." Thus Ms. Orgski’s
verse review ran as follows:
Fully fait accompli.
Wendy's sublet a bed-sit
near Southend-on-Sea.
Wend sees well-wishers Wend's Days
from "t'wendy" past three.
lacks all savor as such.
Four'll score mileage as silage
for shoats -- in a clutch.
(As a rule, though, shoats drool...
but don't fancy it much.)
oversimplify)
stands long of calf
(though short of thigh)
and, folks say,
favors Zhou En-lai.
thrøügh D'Mååd Dücs Fjørd.
"We're wårr'n'," wårns Ørn,
"før Dånegeld høård.
Meåntime, thøügh,
try dås smörgåsbørd!"
if Sikkim slipp'd into the sea...?
Is't the Nepalese Nuisance,
the Bad Bhutanee
or the Sour Pakistani...?"
(Could be it's all three.)
from Aberdeen --
are dead. (One contract
on the 'tween'
slew two: three Grendels
through each spleen.)
of foul repute.
Abus'd
in 19th-cent'ry Butte,
'twas term'd
"The 'Get Mean!' Knot," to boot!
(olim Gretna Green).
The Haitch/Cull Hub,
lies nigh its mean,
and links all life forms
in between.
I'd proffer (if press'd).
Where it scabs, a coarse thatch thrives,
a narrowish nest.
How's my "in-lesion" hair...?
Very -- ouch! -- barb'd, at best!
Enjoyin' one's Jinga Ale
starts with the pour.
As to heads, here's one rule
no beer geek dare ignore:
always think, "Just one pinky of foam...
but no more!"
(Proper Jinga heads bode
"mucho gusto," Señor.)
"...K is Fork In The Road..."
"...K is for King Thor Ode..."
in a minuscule, from Brest,
four lines of verse -- a runic charm
by Saxon choir monks finess'd:
The King Thor Ode is sung once more,
tho' through twelve centuries repress'd.
they'd do away.
Pernell 'n' Dan, with Mike,
vote, "Yea!"
But Lorne's "Nope!" trumps:
those sideburns stay!
be'd he who hides --
unless he's bonkers...
or abides
a deadly dose
of Mal De Ides!
"...N is Fornicator..."
"...N is for Nick/Kate Tour..."
though unable to stand...?
Upright bassist Nick Cage
needs to lend you a hand...?
Nineteen Nick/Kate Tour tees
can be mine for a grand...?
Its bashful brontosaur.
Loch Lomond
masks a manticore.
(Green Scots call Oake Loch's Roc
'Al Gore.')
dress sim'larly...?
They shall
if we supply shirts free:
Porp! Pull him out
an' match his tee!*
to hide their hair,
hats lined with Quito fur.
They're (like)
ubique-...ubick-...
They're everywhere!
"...R is Forest Of Arden..."
"...R is for Rasta, Fartin!..."
wit' mango tart.
So, when meal done
'n' Rast' depart,
dat Rasta man
fart fragrant fart!
Sight Aga Khan!"
"That turkey's toast!"
notes Paula Zahn.
"'T'will surely prove
'ArMÁgeddon'!"
'n' Curly Joe,
but Quanzhou, Chou
'n' Zangjikou.
Still, who steps up to "tease" 'em...?
Mo!
Colm Katz.
"Frickin' 'Ummer! Oim ah' numb...
plus, look: we've four flats:
unless sprung afore sundown,
we're News Hour stats!"
'n' Ibn Pakuda
you've three sapient sharks
'n' one bright baracuda,
yet -- Vey! -- all four've veer'd
from "vi' trita, vi' tuta." *
plum preserves,
yet 'Dank!' 'em not
for 'stuffs each serves.
Why...?” "We're dim, Arch!"
Jughead observes.
To mallets
swiped from gamelan,
shrewd smiths affix'd,
in ancient Xan,
keen blades
for fighting man-to-man:
what Uzzis can't do,
Xan knives can!
since Sol ate Harry.
Still, those clean
kohanim query,
"What of Hal was meat,
what dairy...?"
and video Keno.
One hooker they book'd
turn'd their metier El-Mean. Yo!
My cousin Carmina,
said Zed-Delta's teen 'ho'.
guide said: "...A is Four And Twenty
Blanc Birds..." but the near-sighted,
hard-of-hearing art critic Ms. Orgski
heard and saw: "...A's Foreign Wendy,
Black Op, Hurts..." Thus Ms. Orgski’s
verse review ran as follows:
Foreign Wendy, black op,
hurts:
so soul-sick, she!
Her divorce from The Force...? Fully fait accompli.
Wendy's sublet a bed-sit
near Southend-on-Sea.
Wend sees well-wishers Wend's Days
from "t'wendy" past three.
The audio guide said: "...B is Forbidden
Fruit..." but Ms Orgski heard and saw:
"...B is for Bitten Fruit..." Thus, her
review:
Fruit..." but Ms Orgski heard and saw:
"...B is for Bitten Fruit..." Thus, her
review:
Inch-thick skin of once-bitten
fruit
(rough to the touch...?
Tough!), when tapp'd for its sap, lacks all savor as such.
Four'll score mileage as silage
for shoats -- in a clutch.
(As a rule, though, shoats drool...
but don't fancy it much.)
The guide said: "...C is Forceps
Anterior..." but Ms. Orgski heard:
"...C is for Cepp's Sand Terrier..."
Thus, her review:
Anterior..." but Ms. Orgski heard:
"...C is for Cepp's Sand Terrier..."
Thus, her review:
Prince Çepp's Sand Terrier,
like his Skye,
(unless vets like his Skye,
oversimplify)
stands long of calf
(though short of thigh)
and, folks say,
favors Zhou En-lai.
The guide said: "...D is Ford
Madox
Ford..." but Orgski heard: "...D is
for D'Mååd Dücs Fjørd..." Thus,
her review:
Ford..." but Orgski heard: "...D is
for D'Mååd Dücs Fjørd..." Thus,
her review:
Fåmed Viking Ørn shøüts,
"All's åbøård!"
then chårts a cøürse "All's åbøård!"
thrøügh D'Mååd Dücs Fjørd.
"We're wårr'n'," wårns Ørn,
"før Dånegeld høård.
Meåntime, thøügh,
try dås smörgåsbørd!"
The guide said: "...E is Forensic
Chemistry..." but Orgski heard:
"...E is for 'End Sikkim' Mystery..."
Thus, her review:
Chemistry..." but Orgski heard:
"...E is for 'End Sikkim' Mystery..."
Thus, her review:
Asks the 'End Sikkim' Mystery:
"Who might there be
who'd turn cartwheels "Who might there be
if Sikkim slipp'd into the sea...?
Is't the Nepalese Nuisance,
the Bad Bhutanee
or the Sour Pakistani...?"
(Could be it's all three.)
The guide: "...F is Forfeits
Your
Deposit..." Orgski heard: "...F is for
Fitz/Geordie Bus Hit...” Her review:
Deposit..." Orgski heard: "...F is for
Fitz/Geordie Bus Hit...” Her review:
Twee Geordie and Fitz, Scots --
last seen
aboard a bus last seen
from Aberdeen --
are dead. (One contract
on the 'tween'
slew two: three Grendels
through each spleen.)
The guide: "...G is Forget-Me-Not..."
Orgski heard: "...G is for 'Get Mean!'
Knot..." Her review:
Orgski heard: "...G is for 'Get Mean!'
Knot..." Her review:
The Rooskie 'knout'
(pronounc'd like 'k'noot')…?
S'for floggin' folk (pronounc'd like 'k'noot')…?
of foul repute.
Abus'd
in 19th-cent'ry Butte,
'twas term'd
"The 'Get Mean!' Knot," to boot!
Guide: "...H is Four-H
Club..."
Orgski: "...H is for Haitch/Cull Hub..."
Review:
Orgski: "...H is for Haitch/Cull Hub..."
Review:
The road from Cull,
near Achnasheen,
skirts Haitch Heights near Achnasheen,
(olim Gretna Green).
The Haitch/Cull Hub,
lies nigh its mean,
and links all life forms
in between.
Guide: "...I is Foreign Legionnaire..."
Orgski: "...I is for 'In-Lesion' Hair..."
Review:
Orgski: "...I is for 'In-Lesion' Hair..."
Review:
I'm supine as Herr Zorro
"zip-zip-zip"s my chest,
so Z's 'Z' proves more 'N'-like, "zip-zip-zip"s my chest,
I'd proffer (if press'd).
Where it scabs, a coarse thatch thrives,
a narrowish nest.
How's my "in-lesion" hair...?
Very -- ouch! -- barb'd, at best!
"...J is Forging Ahead..."
"...J is for Jinga Head..."
"...J is for Jinga Head..."
Enjoyin' one's Jinga Ale
starts with the pour.
As to heads, here's one rule
no beer geek dare ignore:
always think, "Just one pinky of foam...
but no more!"
(Proper Jinga heads bode
"mucho gusto," Señor.)
"...K is Fork In The Road..."
"...K is for King Thor Ode..."
In Paris, B.N. Lat. 2121
(a palimpsest)
was found, preserved upon a
flyleaf, (a palimpsest)
in a minuscule, from Brest,
four lines of verse -- a runic charm
by Saxon choir monks finess'd:
The King Thor Ode is sung once more,
tho' through twelve centuries repress'd.
"...L is Forlorn Hope..."
"...L is for "Lorne...?" "Nope!"..."
"...L is for "Lorne...?" "Nope!"..."
Bonanza's cast
casts votes today.
With Pa's cheek hair casts votes today.
they'd do away.
Pernell 'n' Dan, with Mike,
vote, "Yea!"
But Lorne's "Nope!" trumps:
those sideburns stay!
"...M is Formaldehydes..."
"...M is for Mal De Ides..."
"...M is for Mal De Ides..."
Rome's Senate's
plottin' Caesarcides:
the lord who'd live plottin' Caesarcides:
be'd he who hides --
unless he's bonkers...
or abides
a deadly dose
of Mal De Ides!
"...N is Fornicator..."
"...N is for Nick/Kate Tour..."
No lie, Katy Hepburn:
you're fronting a band...?
Playin' rhythm guitar, you're fronting a band...?
though unable to stand...?
Upright bassist Nick Cage
needs to lend you a hand...?
Nineteen Nick/Kate Tour tees
can be mine for a grand...?
"...O is Four O'Clock Rock!..."
"...O is for Oake Loch Roc..."
"...O is for Oake Loch Roc..."
Great Scotland's lochs
boast
beasts galore:
Loch Ness...? Its bashful brontosaur.
Loch Lomond
masks a manticore.
(Green Scots call Oake Loch's Roc
'Al Gore.')
"...P is For Purple Mountains' Majesty..."
"...P is Porp! Pull him out an' match
his tee..."
"...P is Porp! Pull him out an' match
his tee..."
Our porpoise
wears this tee shirt, see...?
Shall all our
fish wears this tee shirt, see...?
dress sim'larly...?
They shall
if we supply shirts free:
Porp! Pull him out
an' match his tee!*
* Clearly
there appears to be no
correspondence between the image
Ms. Orgski imagined and her verse
review, nor can this lack be readily
explained.
correspondence between the image
Ms. Orgski imagined and her verse
review, nor can this lack be readily
explained.
"...Q is Fork It Over!..."
"...Q is for Quito Fur..."
"...Q is for Quito Fur..."
Chic Ecuadoran
doñas wear
sombreros -- hats! -- doñas wear
to hide their hair,
hats lined with Quito fur.
They're (like)
ubique-...ubick-...
They're everywhere!
"...R is Forest Of Arden..."
"...R is for Rasta, Fartin!..."
Haute Rastafarian
cookin' art
blen' goat kabob cookin' art
wit' mango tart.
So, when meal done
'n' Rast' depart,
dat Rasta man
fart fragrant fart!
"...S is Forsyte Saga..."
"...S is for '...Sites Aga!'..."
"...S is for '...Sites Aga!'..."
The Trib,
with trenchant lexicon,
reads, "Neo-Cons with trenchant lexicon,
Sight Aga Khan!"
"That turkey's toast!"
notes Paula Zahn.
"'T'will surely prove
'ArMÁgeddon'!"
"...T is Fortissimo!..."
"...T is for Tease 'Em, Mo!..."
"...T is for Tease 'Em, Mo!..."
Three Shanghai Stooges
steal the show --
not Larry, Shemp steal the show --
'n' Curly Joe,
but Quanzhou, Chou
'n' Zangjikou.
Still, who steps up to "tease" 'em...?
Mo!
"...U is Forum Romanum..."
"...U is for 'Ummer! Oim Ah' Numb!'..."
"...U is for 'Ummer! Oim Ah' Numb!'..."
Our unarmor'd Humvee
draws fire: "Rat-tat-tat!"s.
"Cor! Oim 'it!" cries
our Irish embedee, draws fire: "Rat-tat-tat!"s.
Colm Katz.
"Frickin' 'Ummer! Oim ah' numb...
plus, look: we've four flats:
unless sprung afore sundown,
we're News Hour stats!"
"...V is Four Virtuous Maidens..."
"...V is for Veered: Jewish Mavens..."
"...V is for Veered: Jewish Mavens..."
In Isaac Israeli
'n' Jeshua Ben Judah,
in Saadia Ben Joseph 'n' Jeshua Ben Judah,
'n' Ibn Pakuda
you've three sapient sharks
'n' one bright baracuda,
yet -- Vey! -- all four've veer'd
from "vi' trita, vi' tuta." *
* Translation: The beaten path
is the safe way.
is the safe way.
"...W is 'Forward...March!'..."
"...W is for 'We're Dim, Arch!'..."
"...W is for 'We're Dim, Arch!'..."
"We scarf,” says Arch,
Miss V’s hors-d'oeuvres,
pork out on Betty's Miss V’s hors-d'oeuvres,
plum preserves,
yet 'Dank!' 'em not
for 'stuffs each serves.
Why...?” "We're dim, Arch!"
Jughead observes.
"...X is Forks And Knives..."
"...X is for Xan Knives..."
"...X is for Xan Knives..."
To mallets
swiped from gamelan,
shrewd smiths affix'd,
in ancient Xan,
keen blades
for fighting man-to-man:
what Uzzis can't do,
Xan knives can!
"...Y is Fourteen Years In Solitary..."
"...Y is for Ten Years Since Sol Ate Harry..."
"...Y is for Ten Years Since Sol Ate Harry..."
Dawns the fourth
of February!
Ten long years of February!
since Sol ate Harry.
Still, those clean
kohanim query,
"What of Hal was meat,
what dairy...?"
The exhibition's portable audio track
said: "...Z is Forza Del Destino..." What
Ms Orgski heard and saw: "... Z is for
Zed-Delta's Teen 'Ho'..."Thus, her
verse review:
said: "...Z is Forza Del Destino..." What
Ms Orgski heard and saw: "... Z is for
Zed-Delta's Teen 'Ho'..."Thus, her
verse review:
Zealous Zeta-Delt lads
launch'd their Latin casino,
installing roulette, craps launch'd their Latin casino,
and video Keno.
One hooker they book'd
turn'd their metier El-Mean. Yo!
My cousin Carmina,
said Zed-Delta's teen 'ho'.
Ladies and gentlemen; the
exhibition is closed.
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