"Some days my minde plays tricks on me..." Vu and Other Dejas: A Constrained Alphabet

Some days my mind plays tricks on me.

Such stuff seems nothing new.
Your mind plays tricks on you as well.
It's labeled déjà vu.

Like when 'twould seem, as in a dream,
I’ve bid “Bis bald!” to you
not once or twice but thrice times thrice:
I’m having dej’ adieu.

Or, as when craving late-night nosh –
Dovedale at ten till two -- 
I chew, encore, that goo once more:
I’m having deja bleu.

Whence ousts of Oman’s oligarchs,
pols' purges in Peru?
Occurred these turdes de force before?
Hooray for deja coup.

I reckon second song lines 
from a second kangaroo
should sound…well. sound. They’re, I’ll be bound,
my deja didg’ridoo. 

One rhyme sings, “Mary had a lamb.”
One claims she’s had a few.
That rhymer must imagine Mary's
having deja ewe. 

My forehead’s hot. The runs have got
me running to the loo.
I retch. And then I retch again.
I’m having deja flu. 

More wildebeests? (Oh, well: at least
it’s not more caribou.)
Their name is Boer. They’re back once more:
I’m having deja gnu.

Here’s Hef. There’s Laurie.
Not to worry: Masekela, too,
twice viewed with Grant. Twin sightings can’t 
be less than deja Hugh. 

I’ve never lent ye. Borrowed? Plenty. 
One loan’s wa-a-a-ay past due.
I own I’ve owed an ample load.
It’s deja I.O.U. 

These games I’ve played before: today’d
be not my grande debut.
I’ve jumped. I’ve soared. I’ve shot. I’ve scored.
I’m having deja jeux.

This scene repeats: I’ve seen these sheets,
these kindled crosses, too.
Supremacy? Hyperbole:
I’m having deja Ku.

Again: green stalls. Graffiti’d walls.
Green urinals. Green poo.
Familiar Gents, with sim’lar scents.
I’m having deja loo.

Like Burgess, G., I fail to see 
plum cows. (My bovines? Blue.)
But, were I to, I’d croon, “So, nu?
What’s this? More deja moo?” 

I’m kibitzing. I’m chalisching.
And, although not a Jew,
I’ve felt like “thisht” before: farmisht.
Oy vay! ‘Tis deja! Nu?

I’ve mourned in morning rooms before,
each gilt – bronzed through and through.
Like Paris ebenistes, I’m having
deja ormolu.

They – Eeyore, Piglet, Rabbit, Owl –
with me and Baby Roo,
stroll Hundred Aker Wood once more.
I’m having deja Pooh.

I’ve lined up. But…in line for what?
Cheap tickets for The Who?
Why can’t I, then, ken where or when?
Do I have deja queue?

I stand before my stove once more --
su chef, Le Cordon Bleu, 
don toque (my hat), whisk flour in fat.
I’m having deja roux.

Again I pull a Sitting Bull.
Why so? I’ve got no clue.
Still, I’ll not gripe, “With you’s the pipe”
when having deja Sioux.

Revisiting the jet set, as
from time to time I do, 
I roast great hosts of global ghosts.
Do I have deja Tru?

I live a lie. Then, by and by,
reliving it anew,
I start to see. What’s dawned on me?
That I have dej’ untrue.

As if on hajj, I roam the Raj,
like Fogg and Passepartout.
That tang? Again? I’m having, then,
more deja vindaloo.

Once more, these scents. Such redolence:
is something on my shoe?
They come, these smells, from fragrance hells.
I’m having deja “whew!” 

I’ve chanced upon these domes of Khan
more times than Earhart flew. 
They never cloy. I so-o-o-o enjoy
each deja Xanadu.

As encore, I’ll quick march a mile
ensconced in your left shoe.
No diff’rence be ‘twixt thee and me:
I’m having deja you.

I can’t ignore what’s seen before –
a ewe, a gnu, a shrew.
Wild things times ten, seen o’er again:
I’m having deja zoo.

And so it goes. As I disclose
to you one final vu
to end one verse, I start rehears-
als. Coming's Deja Two.

"Todaey's the 31st of Maey..." Paean on the Last Daey of Maey

Todaey's the 31st of Maey 
and, just like aeny daey this Maey,
Maey's raeinin' clouds weaer shrouds of claey.

Maey's ocean waeves weaer crowns of spraey
in shaedes of whey, Maey's waey to saey
that Maey remains, clean through todaey, 

a month gone graey -- so very graey
that every single sound of /ay/
Maey's spelt with e-augmented a.