Bogart In Hell: A Constrained Rewrite

      (Day 2) 

     Fred C. Dobbs: 
"If yer plannin' on smokin' them cigars, 
you'll need matches. Where's yer matches...? 
Let's see 'em."
     Gold Hat: 
"Matches...? We ain't got no matches. 
We don't need no matches. I don't have to 
show you no stinkin' matches." 

     (Day 736) 

     Fred C. Dobbs: 
"If yer as poor as ya claim, yer serapes' be 
full o' patches. Where's yer patches...? 
Let's see 'em.
     Gold Hat: "Patches...? We ain't got no patches. 
We don't need no patches...  

     (Day 82,054)

     Fred C. Dobbs: "If ya'd just come 
from Ash Wednesday service, yer foreheads'd be 
smudg'd with ashes. Where's yer ashes...?
Let's see 'em."
     Gold Hat: "Ashes...? We ain't got no ashes. 
We don't need....  

     (Day 9,998,976,001) 
     
     Fred C. Dobbs: 
"If yer compadres were really members
of the Italian Socialist Party, they'd be Fascists. 
Where's yer Fascists...? 
Let's see 'em.
     Gold Hat: "Fascists...? 
We ain't got no Fascists... 

     (Day 6,392,805,620,395,847) 
     
     Fred C. Dobbs: 
"If ya keep insistin' on sashayin' around 
in them skimpy two-piece bathin' suits, you'll 
need pageants. Where's your pageants...? 
Let's see 'em...
     Gold Hat: 
"Pageants...?” 

     (Day 83,492,736,574,839,283,759,293)
     
     Fred C. Dobbs: 
"If yer true Muslims you’ll need hajjes. 
Where's yer hajjes..." 

Body Parts: A Constrained Alphabet

A’s for the arm some Italians will take*
when you give 'em a hand (Drumpf’s? An inch wide!) to shake.
B’s for the brow. It’s the forehead you furrow
when badgeless bandidos start burgling your burro.
C’s for the chin on which chumps are seen taking it.
Guilty as charged? Yep! ‘Tain’t no use opaqueing it.
     * Dagli una mano e lui prendera in braccio.

D’s for the derma – what dimwits call skin.
White or black, it’s, in fact, the original sin.
E’s for the elbow, a part none save fools
choose to stick in their ears. I know few sharper tools.
F’s for the finger – precisely, the third –
which one gives unto others – or so I have heard.

G is for genitals – snipped when you’re Jewish.
(Or, maybe, for gentiles: I’m, sadly, sans clueish.)
H? For the hip. It’s the place where best pals
seem so frequently joined. (Pals are “lezzies” when gals.)
I’s for intestines. To view 'em brings chills.
(Or, perhaps, for intestates who die lacking wills.)

J's for the jugular. That’s where they start
when their final objective’s to cut out your heart.
K’s for the kneecap – what repo men break
when your juice loan repayments you’re failing to make.
L’s for the lips. They’re the pair you’re to read
when you dad doubles down on what first he decreed.

M’s for the mammaries, known to become
overblown as your girlfriend’s becoming a mum.
N’s for the nails, parts of fingers and toes
to which polish adheres. (N is also for nose.)
O’s for the ovaries – right after ‘nails.’
They’re so called ‘cause they’re “’over re-‘marked on” my males.

P’s for the palms which are found on your hands.
(P is also for trees found in cyclone-prone lands.)
Q’s for the quadriceps – sections of thighs
which are over-developed in muscle-bound guys.
R’s for the rib, from which God fashioned Eve –
one more tale among many I’m loathe to believe.

S? For the shin. It’s the part you will bark
if your bare leg encounters my shin in the dark.
T’s for the tongue. White ones, shaped like a fork,
Coughed up twenty four dollars to purchase New York.
U: for umbilical cord? Nope! For uterus.
(Either or both, though, prove utile to tutor us.)

V’s for the veins. They’re cerulean blue –
and, if vericose, horribly hideous, too.
W’s wisdom teeth. Powder or paste
fails to save them. (It’s also for wrinkles and waist.)
X is for xiphoid – more process than part
and but rarely mistaken for kidney or heart.

Y’s for the yolk sac – in people, not eggs.
In a fetus, it’s larger than lobes, lungs or legs.
Z’s for the zonule of Zinn (Would I lie?),
but this Zinn isn’t Howard, it’s some other guy,
His name’s Johann Gottfried. He, Howard and I
here bid you – and each part of your body -- “goodbye!”

An Almost Atonal Aria: Constrained Nonsense in Rhyme

Songs in C? Sung gleefully
since singers were pre-natal.
Tunes in F? The favored clef
of yod’lers in the cradle.

C-sharp rounds are rife with sounds
which summon up -weiss, edel-.
Lays in A, chanteuses say,
go dandy with a dreidel.

Duets in B? “The master key, “
claims Hansel’s sister Gretel.
Hymns in G flow gracefully,
like syrup from Mom’s ladle.

Sing airs in D? No sir! Not me!
(Though crooners in Kuwail’ll.)
Chansons in E? De corps esprit!
But strains in A flat? Fatal!

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.

Exit Ramp: A Constrained Political Strategy in Rhyme

(He'd die without our constant attention. His base feeds on that celebrity. Let's try running not towards him but away from him -- towards those who are working hard to replace his nonsense with responsible governing.)

If door-bust deal you plan to steal, best practice: run...don't walk! 
If neighbor's gate you'd "decorate," spray aerosol...don't chalk!
If folks you'd slur whose names end '-ner,' yell 'Hef-' or 'Shat-'! Don't 'Faulk-'! 
If Donald Drump you wish to dump, bypass the ass! (Don't stalk!) 

To batters who you'd say "Skiddoo!" just pitch the ball...don't balk!
If Tonys you would peer review, vet Blair! Quiz Quinn...don’t “Hawk”!
If Donald's reign's that big a bane, just stop all Donald talk!
In short, if Drump you'd re-e-e-eally dump, bypass the ass! (Don't stalk!)

Abecedarial Aspects of 'Chi': Constrained Nonsense in Rhyme

Dapper Don Ameche dotes on floating Ed Balducci.
Campo (yum!) di Bocce’s haut to Italy’s Il Duce.
Ignoratio Elenchi quotes sequential Fibonnacci.

Soprano Galli-Curci curtsies, dancing Hootchie-Kootchie.

Matthew Groening’s Itchy hurts, romancing Jughead’s Archie.

Pakistan’s Karachi ‘fatwa’s glitt’ry Liberace.
Happy-New-Year Mochi...? “Not when Gott be tot!” shouts Nietzsche.
In Nevil’s On the Beach, Shute's written: "Senior cit'zens…? Paunchy!" 

Accupressure’s Qu-Chi chews up Justis playing “Raunchy.”
Big Night’s Stanley Tucci brews up martial art form Tai Chi.

“…cedeme Un Chi Chi” moos a partisan from Vichy.
Maids from Weeki-Watchee swoon for frat boys’ Beta Xi Chi.
Shirley Yamaguchi's cow licks Dragonball Z Chi Chi.

I tip my tam to ev'ry ‘chi.’ To each: arrivederci, ‘chi’!