A: Not if society
practices piety.
Q: Who would dare to say y'all ain’t the belle of the ball?
A: I know no one at all with the requisite gall.
Q: Why’s the cream of the crop rarely land at the top?
A: Though some may make that stop, most eventually drop.
Q: Is one foolish to wed on the Day of the Dead?
A: Nonsense! Somewhere I read: “Even stiffs scruples shed.”
Q: Looms the edge of the end just around yonder bend?
A: If so, heaven forefend: we’re in deep doodoo, friend.
Q: Knows the meaning of ‘poor' ev’ry father of four?
A: Yep! It’s budget’ry war keeping wolves from the door.
Q: Might great gaggles of geese pull the plug on world peace?
A: Sure, so text the police: “Make that ‘gak-gak-gak’ cease!”
Q: Do the Analects tell of the Harr’wing of Hell?
A: They do not. (Still, don’t yell: they Confucius treat well.)
Q: Can the Island of Io sustain, in its bayou (Hey! this ain't Ohio) a crane with one eye?
A: Oh.
Q: D’you suppose you could cram Mason jars of (say) jam into cyclotrons, ma’am?
A: Yes, if less than a dram.
Q: Might the King of the Khyber, with help from a “nighbor,” untangle this fiber?
A: Nope! King’s an imbiber.
Q: Should a pastoral band play my “Lay of the Land”?
A: Yes…unless they’re so-o-o-o-o bland that their bassist’s been canned.
Q: “Holy Mother of Mercy!” exclaimed Walker Percy. “What happened to Circe?
A: (She’d moved to New Jersey.)
Q: His query though haute is too short (and I quote): “What’s afloat in the moat?”
A: (Praise be! Nothing of note.)
Q: If her next oath of office she takes with a cough, thus: “A-h-h-h-hem!” – who’s pissed off? Us?
A: Let’s not board the Scoff Bus.
Q: Has Vern of Versailles earned his piece of the pie?
A: Sure. (And there but for “Why can’t the English?” go I.)
Q: Who’s Quixote of Queens?
A: Don’s that don, by all means, stashing billions of beans into taper-fit jeans.
Q: Which new rules of the road disallow being towed eating pie a la mode?
A: None in binary code.
Q: What think Freudian shrinks of the smile of the Sphinx?
A: Most draw psychical links to the fact that it drinks.
Q: Tell me: who takes the crown as the talk of the town?
A: Ethel Isadore Brown. She took nowt lying down.
Q: Why’s the U S of A always wind up this way?
A: Though I rue the cliché: ‘cuz its feet are of clay.
Q: Which – Vern's vat of Vouvray or my cage de au lait – contains vitamin K?
A: Neither, to both's dismay.
Q: Once the flags get unfurled, do the diatribes hurled leave one’s hair firmly curled?
A: ‘Tis the way of the world.
Q: Where’s the Xyst of Xi’an? Where’s the Yak of Yaiku? Where’s the Zorse of Zagreb.
A: In no typical zoo.
Q: Who would dare to say y'all ain’t the belle of the ball?
A: I know no one at all with the requisite gall.
Q: Why’s the cream of the crop rarely land at the top?
A: Though some may make that stop, most eventually drop.
Q: Is one foolish to wed on the Day of the Dead?
A: Nonsense! Somewhere I read: “Even stiffs scruples shed.”
Q: Looms the edge of the end just around yonder bend?
A: If so, heaven forefend: we’re in deep doodoo, friend.
Q: Knows the meaning of ‘poor' ev’ry father of four?
A: Yep! It’s budget’ry war keeping wolves from the door.
Q: Might great gaggles of geese pull the plug on world peace?
A: Sure, so text the police: “Make that ‘gak-gak-gak’ cease!”
Q: Do the Analects tell of the Harr’wing of Hell?
A: They do not. (Still, don’t yell: they Confucius treat well.)
Q: Can the Island of Io sustain, in its bayou (Hey! this ain't Ohio) a crane with one eye?
A: Oh.
Q: D’you suppose you could cram Mason jars of (say) jam into cyclotrons, ma’am?
A: Yes, if less than a dram.
Q: Might the King of the Khyber, with help from a “nighbor,” untangle this fiber?
A: Nope! King’s an imbiber.
Q: Should a pastoral band play my “Lay of the Land”?
A: Yes…unless they’re so-o-o-o-o bland that their bassist’s been canned.
Q: “Holy Mother of Mercy!” exclaimed Walker Percy. “What happened to Circe?
A: (She’d moved to New Jersey.)
Q: His query though haute is too short (and I quote): “What’s afloat in the moat?”
A: (Praise be! Nothing of note.)
Q: If her next oath of office she takes with a cough, thus: “A-h-h-h-hem!” – who’s pissed off? Us?
A: Let’s not board the Scoff Bus.
Q: Has Vern of Versailles earned his piece of the pie?
A: Sure. (And there but for “Why can’t the English?” go I.)
Q: Who’s Quixote of Queens?
A: Don’s that don, by all means, stashing billions of beans into taper-fit jeans.
Q: Which new rules of the road disallow being towed eating pie a la mode?
A: None in binary code.
Q: What think Freudian shrinks of the smile of the Sphinx?
A: Most draw psychical links to the fact that it drinks.
Q: Tell me: who takes the crown as the talk of the town?
A: Ethel Isadore Brown. She took nowt lying down.
Q: Why’s the U S of A always wind up this way?
A: Though I rue the cliché: ‘cuz its feet are of clay.
Q: Which – Vern's vat of Vouvray or my cage de au lait – contains vitamin K?
A: Neither, to both's dismay.
Q: Once the flags get unfurled, do the diatribes hurled leave one’s hair firmly curled?
A: ‘Tis the way of the world.
Q: Where’s the Xyst of Xi’an? Where’s the Yak of Yaiku? Where’s the Zorse of Zagreb.
A: In no typical zoo.
