"One pair of /shu:t/s (one spelt it 'Shute')..." One Pair... & Others or Pairs of Pairings Not Pomaceous: A Constrained Nonsense Rhyme

One pair* of /shu:t/s** (one*** spelt it ‘Shute’)
once shared one pair of parachutes.
The shrewd galoots proved resolute: 
they'd wear, unaired, wet Wellie boots.
    * The first of the duo is Marchette Chute.  
    ** 'sh' here substitutes for a proper but 
undownloadable (at least by me) symbol 
for the fricative.
    *** The second of the duo is Nevil Shute. 

One pair of Bulls* from local shuls** 
declared one pair of parables.
One’s Mike; one's Scott. If heed's paid, you’ll
note knells untolled at tractor pulls.
     * NBA Chicago-type.
     ** Funny: they don't look Jewish.

One pair of grins – one's yang, one's yin –
once graced one pair of peregrines.* 
“Good day, friend Minh.” “How fares ye, Flynn...?”
(If frowns such clowns wear, no one wins.)
     * Not falcons but characters from foreign 
countries -- 
Viet Nam and Ireland, probably, judging by 
the names.

One pair of pets were ordered, “Get
thee b’yond yon pair of parapets!”
Their fate? No fete. (Here, on cassette,
view “Tigh and Tigger’s Death Duets.”)

One pair of Sauls from Montreal
installs one pair of parasols.
Just who plants whose none now recalls,
nor are there pressing protocols. 

One pair of dice – much-needed spice –
she’d introduce in Paradise.
“Eve! You’d entice? Heed Asp’s advice.
Uns-s-s-sliced, one apple will s-s-s-suffice.” 

One pair of Moores* one can’t ignore
once took one pair of paramours,
new senses ceding (veiled before)
to turns of phrase like “two-by-fours.”**
      * Michael and Mary Tyler and their 
respective partners. 
      ** Some early manuscripts transmitting 
these verses show “hardwood floors” or 
"foreign shores" here.

One pair of graphs (one can’t but laugh)
attempts one pair of paragraphs
to paraphrase, though just one half 
proves readable; the rest is chaff.

One peer of Keats (some l’hommes d’elites)
repeats one pair of parakeets’
loquacity: “Too-wheet, too-wheet!”
(L’eclairess’ment: “What’s shakin,’ Sweets?”) 

One pair of docs (one Groucho mocks)
apparently’s one paradox:
The short one’s wily as an ox.
The shorter? Dumber than a fox!

Two pairs of dimes – amalgams I’m
to view as pairs of paradigms
(financial fall guys for tough times) –
now fail, I fear, to “k’ching!” my chimes. 

One pair of Finns did, for their sins,
smear pairs of beards with paraffins.
That each bears pairs of double chins
dimmed damage to respective skins.

Of all accounts of pairs of mounts
in Lit, which pair be paramount?
If Silver Rosinant’ surmounts,
does Dapple Tonto’s Scout discount?

Do “noids” of Freud’s wax overjoyed,
annoying pairs of paranoids?
Of pity Sigmund proves devoid,
while Anna schizoids now avoids. 

One pair of lies (who’ll posit “why?”s?)
will petrify and paralyze.
The first? That God bestrides the skies. 
The second? That She prophesies. 

One pair of Rays (so someone says)
twin virelays in paraphrase
determined to compose…in days!
Fiasco? Let me count the ways. 

One pair of sites sits trained tonight
upon one pair of parasites.
Before they flee (row left, flow right),
let fly…and nuke their leukocites!

One pair of Ds (thus: PAR-OD-DY)
misspells completely ‘parodies’
and orthographic’lly ODs…
unless one’s speaking Parrotese.  

One pair of cleats to prink two feet,
one each for pairs of Paracletes.
Two’d be taboo; yet still they’re fleet.
Pete* poached the pair. (Pete always cheats.)
     * Precisely which Peter continues 
undetermined. 

One pair of blasts, one day long past,
destroyed one pair of parablasts.
One film crew on the scene was gassed.
Press sketches? Neither’s Nast’s or Chast’s.

One pair of cells, one chemist tells,
invade one pair of paraceles
within one’s brain, where – swell! – they’ll swell,
until one’s hearing “boids ‘n’ bells.” 

Who’ll dare to share au pairs – in pairs –
with Herr Moliere? Au pairs like theirs
could care for heirs of trillionaires.
(Their nightmares? Or their answered prayers?) 

One pair of guys (Would I tell lies?)
discovered pairs of Paraguays.
The one? A tropic paradise.
The other? Hot 'neath Paris skies.

Parameters? I don’t know yours,
but mine rate pairs of amateurs
who’re fabricating haut coutures.
(One hopes that “off-the-rack” endures.)

"A couple of parabolas,"
declared one pair of gabblers,
"results in psychobabble, sirs,
from mathematics dabblers." 

Paracelsus and a pair o’ seltzers await 

versification: a work in progress

"When asked, 'Have you...'" Beyond 'Bucket' Pas(s/t) the Buck(et List): A Constrained Nonsense Crambo

When asked, “Have you your bucket list to flesh out waning days...?”

I answer, “I’ve my duck it list. I’ve shunn'd that former craze.”
I’ve also drawn up chuck it lists for chores I shan’t discharge.
It’s filed with my upchuck it list -- a fetid file...and large.)

I’ve jotted sev'ral suck it lists to treat of life’s defeats.
My yuck! it list keeps track of folk who tweet unseemly tweets.
I’ve got a nip ‘n’ tuck it list – some lipo for my rear.
Close follows on: my ducat list. (Those lipo jobs come dear.) 

Asked, “Have you made your shuck it list of turnpikes you’ve not taken...?”
I answer. “My amok it list’s the syllabus I’m makin.’”
No “Walk!” Must run! No talk, just fun. Perhaps I’ll steal a raft.
(That item tops my Tom ‘n’ Huck it list. Some say I’m daft.)

My peers pen Sears Roebuck it lists to index stuff they’d buy.
They’ll need some megabuck it lists as debit cards run dry.
When dawns that day, their names I’ll spray on out o’ luck it lists.
(Or else they’ll make my schmuck it list, of clucks who shake clench’d fists.)

When show me their Canuck it list do lads from Saskatoon,
I read ‘em my Nantucket list, with no aim to impugn,
then flash 'em Winnemucca lists (avoiding Sparks, Nevada.)
We've all got pass the buck it lists: who claims we don’t knows nada.) 

I keep a Habakkuk it list for biblical perspective. 
A peep at my lame duck it list pegs pols who’re ineffective. 
I keep a keep on truckin’ list to index all my lists.
At length I'll need my f**k it list, when set to slit my wrists.

"Less mal must tomes of palindromes..." 'Semordnilap' Spelt Backwards in Duets and Quartets of Quatrains: A Constrained Nonsense Alphabet

     (‘aibohphobia’ and ‘boob’)

Less mal must tomes of palindromes
be coupled with than cobia.
Remember: ‘aibohphobia’’s still,
backwards, ‘aibohphobia.’

Some stock – bouillon – does Godfrey spawn
without the need of cube.
From shocks of flocs he stock concocts.
Plus, backwards, ‘boob’s still ‘boob.’

     (‘civic,’ ‘deified,’ ‘eye’ and ‘foolaloof’)

How scoundrels skulk behind the stars
and stripes one can’t forgive. Ick!
They’re sunshine soldiers, although ‘civic’’s –
back- and forwards – ‘civic.’

“We are as gods and might as well
get good at it,” Brand cried.
Forgets does Stewart: ‘deified’’s
still, backwards, ‘deified’?

My pyramid reads, “M  D  C  C…
L  X  X  V  I.”
Atop sits one omniscient orb:
‘eye,’ backwards-spelt, is ‘eye.’

To don one’s truss? Innocuous,
though never eejit-proof.
Remember: isn’t ‘foolaloof,’ spelled
backwards, ‘foolaloof’?

     (gig’ and ‘hallah’)

To lay down tracks on discs of wax
we blow our axes, dig?
And, through it all, we all recall,
how ‘gig’’s still, backwards, ‘gig.’

Soon, dialogues in synagogues
from Wien to Walla Walla
shall argue this hypothesis:
“(Claim) Backwards, ‘hallah’’s ‘hallah.’

     (‘I did, did I?,’ ‘jaravaraj,’ ‘kayak’ and ‘level’)

When pollsters bang, do I harangue?
Do I unleash my id? I
do not. I sigh, “’I did, did I?’
is, backwards, ‘I did, did I.’”

Ten grand, by gum, is quite some sum:
it’s air fare for my hajj.
And yet, reversed, ‘jaravaraj’
remains ‘jaravaraj.’

Objets which float – canoe, toy boat,
ark, raft – all craft which sway –
read diff’rent each direction.
‘Kayak’s ‘kayak’ either way.

You’re such a devil! As you revel,
handling your bevel,
you’re less inclined, perhaps, to mind
that ‘level’’s, backwards, ‘level.’

     (‘madam’ and ‘noon’)

With push comes shove. Reserve your love
for women of the night.
Remember: ‘madam’’s ‘madam,’
right to left or left to right.

Our father’s glib. Pa’s quick to fib
or croon a ribald tune.
As Daddy’s sons, we run to puns
like “’noon,’ half spun, spells ‘noon.’”

     (‘Ogopogo.’ ‘poop,’ ‘Qaanaaq’ and ‘racecar’)

Slim, Morag, Nessie, Mussie, Cressie:
beasts unparalleled.
Worse, ‘Ogopogo’’s ‘Ogopogo,’
either way (s)he’s spelled.

Don’t tell me you don’t smell it. Whew!
The toilet’s overflowing.
No matter how you spell it,
‘poop’’s ‘poop’ coming, ‘poop’’s ‘poop’ going.

In Qaanaaq are some folks bizarre:
none dwell much farther north,
though ‘Qaanaaq’s ‘Qaanaaq,’ from whichever
pole one sallies forth.

The coin gets tossed. Through clouds – exhaust –
the race is lost or won,
while ‘racecar’’s always ‘racecar,’
from whichever end it’s run.

     (‘sexes’ and ‘tenet’)

There's L. There’s G. There’s B, Q, T.
There’s many shades of gay.
There’s + as well. Thus, ‘sexes’ looks like
‘sexes’ either way.

This pol’s a souse. He’s such a louse
he shames both house and Senate
by hawking votes to purchase potes,
though ‘tenet’’s backwards ‘tenet.’

     (‘Ubu,’ ‘vav,’ ‘wow’ and ‘Xanax’)

Some purred, “Absurd!” That herd had heard
how, now, King Turd’s called Trump.
Yet, ‘Ubu’’s, backwards, ‘Ubu.’
(From both tacks, Drumpf’s a chump.)

There’s yod. There’s beth. There’s mem. There’s teth.
One’s shibboleths they’ll aid.
‘Vav’’s ‘vav’…not matter how – back, forth –
its letters be arrayed.

Most differ, back- and forwards:
Crikey! Blimey! Holy cow!
Gadzooks! Gosh! Jeepers! E-e-e-eek! Good grief
But ‘Wow!’’s still, backwards, ‘Wow!’

Alprazolam, diazepam:
each pill’s a silly name,
though none as fun as Xanax: backwards,
Xanax reads the same.

     (‘Yreka Bakery’ and ‘zuz’)

Yreka, California’s famous
bakery’s closed today.
‘Yreka Bak'ry’’s still ‘Yreka
Bak'ry,’ come what may.

A dollar’s not a Krugerrand.
A nickel’s not a dime.
Withal, a ‘zuz’ is, backwards, ‘zuz.’
Thus wraps this rap in rhyme.