Mons/Tors & Mann's Terse...? Mung Stirs & M'ron's Tours: Numbers in a Series

Ominous '-Osity's Disguising Off-season Woolgathering or What Else Did In the Dinosaurs...?: #5 in a Series 

Curiosity kill’d the cat, 
her filaments shov'd in stuff whiskers ought shun.

How oft she'd been caution’d, “Don’t walk, Whiskers! Run!” 

(Inquisitive kittens are not where it’s at.)

Reciprocity drown’d the rat.
Abandoning ship as marines bilge-pump'd water
repaid one murine far less aid than it oughter.
(Should vermin, unnerv'd, skip the ol' "tit-for-tat"...?)

Luminosity nail’d the gnat.
Drawn toward the flame as was third cousin Moth,
these ticks' Icarus schtick leaves 'em lifeless. (And wroth!)
Their neognats may need a new rheostat.

Animosity off’d the plat.'
Dim Aussies duck-pecker'd uniques used to hunt,
nearly killing the lot of 'em -- may I be blunt...? --
claiming, "Platypode pelts make an all-the-rage hat."

Hypervelocity snuff’d the ‘skrat.
Elevation of pulse culminated in stroke:
muskrat love tapp'd while tangoing's never a joke.
'Skrats be better off caged. Or engaged in a chat.

Numerosity whack'd the bat.
They've roosted in numbers to stagger the mind
or they've "vampired till ready." We've not dug their kind
and, in no hazy terms, said goodbye to all that.

Grandiosity slew the sprat.
Plas-excessive ambition -- precocity plus --
leads to fisherfolk flingin' 'em under the bus.
Can't you still hear that Gatling gun's "rat-a-tat-tat"...?

So: will virtuosity zap the Nat...?
MVP candidate Rendon's the guy. 
Unrestricted free agency's part of the pie.
To which dugout might Anthony throw in his hat...?* 

     * My source, long a Nats follower, informs me that 
Rendon "threw his hat into the California Angels dugout 
Dec. 11, 2019, to the tune of $245 million for seven years -- 
and finished third in the MVP voting." 

Buyer’s Remorse (December 2020 Episode): #4 in a Series

Here he comes to save the day:

“Those responsible shall pay!”

He claims, with circumstance and pomp,

he'll drain that greasy D.C. swamp.

“I will eliminate,” states he,

“all income inequality….

…and introduce health care for all,”

he adds. (This guy's a SuperPol!)

"Where's climate change on my agenda...?

Right up top! But wait! Addenda:

racial issues, free tuitions,

gay rights, greenhouse gas emissions,

judges, gerrymandering...

Why, I'll be fixin' everything!"

(He got my vote November 3^rd.
Since then, I haven’t heard a word.)

Bai Ze: #1 in a Series 

Are this thing’s eyes chartreuse…

...or blue…?

Do those eyes number nine…

...or two…?

Be it ensconced in scales…

...or hair…?

Be that hair sprouting here…

...or there…?

Its shoulders: have they arms…

...or wings…?

D'you wonder if it speaks…

...or sings…?

Does it discourse in sense…

...or rot…?

Observe you a Bai Ze…

...or not…?



SuperSomethin': #2 in a Series

It isn’t a bird. 
It isn’t a plane.

It isn’t a Kurd 

in a sokutai train.

It doesn't come masked. 

It doesn't come caped.

It doesn't come torus- 

or cylinder-shaped.

It doesn't go shoeless. 

It doesn't go shod.

(It hasn't a foot, 

so that isn't so odd.)

It isn't a plainsong. 

It's not Larry Bird.

(Is it something for which 

there's yet no human word...?) 


He No Longer Rings At All (Oscar Night Edition): #3 in a Series

Postmen.
Postwomen.
Postal employees.
Whatever your gender,
the aid you all render
propels me to my knees.
     My wish to purchase postage stamps
and eyeball all on offer
your acrimony upwards ramps
to out your inner scoffer.
     Postmen.
Postwomen.
Postal employees.
I give you a toast: all
I ask…? Don’t go postal!
Just give me...the envelope, please!

(More "Monsters" to come: a work in progress)

Accidentals & Homonyms: a Clinically Unsound Sound Poem

     A♭/G♯

Arrived: 
French Phnom 
Penh pal, 
short friend
long lost 
in thyme --
if, in 
the en,'
jihad 
knot (ben')
a non-
four-scene
la Lille 
Est-il...? 
Quelle Heureist.


     A♯/B♭

Arrived: 
my freak
wend fli-
er miles.

So: I've 
two Sikh, 
"Whence Scil-
ly Isles...?"

Go pack 
me pack!
Lo: I'm 
the Ac-...
the Ac-
cident-
al Tourist.
     

     C♯/D♭

Arrived: 
my Jew'l

redo
tea no-
tice. I've 
to her-

he t'un-
seat PO-
TUS...? Give 
me facts,

tho' I'm 
the Acc-...
the Acc-
ident-
al Jurist.


     D♭/C♯ 

Arrived: 
my sunn'd --
Hey! -- Gnu 
Yoke Thyme.
Where be 
the adze
to wring 
me chyme...?
Finance...? 
One glance.
Indeed! 
I'm Lance,
the Chance 
Roto-
gravureist.

    F♯/G♭

Arrived: 
stretch'd Cannes
vas, or-
der'd by
your stoo-
lie...and --
fab! -- fab-
ric dye.
So: Tin-
tin black...?
Sho'! He's 
an Ac-...
an Ac-
cident-
al Purist. 

     
     E♯/F

Arrived: 
Nouveau 
Bistro 
Francais.

Me...? Go 
with Starr-
Tours of 
the day...?

Off course 
I went! 

I'm Ac-
cident,

bent len-
til Soup 
de Jourist.


(a work in progress)

Men of the Cloth (& One Material Girl)

This textile museum’s now open for biz.
It's hung its first show, call’d it “Men of the Cloth.”

Admission is free. Is it “must-see”…? It is.

You're never unwelcome – unless you’re a moth.

     Abraham Linen: he’ll tell you no lie--

tho' George Washantung might: he’s a whole ‘nother guy.

One left-leaning lib’ral with libertine habits...?
Angora Vidal: he's snow white, so like rabbits.
     Irk Mr. Teabag…? I’d not, were I you,
lest you hear said bloke quizzing you, “One lump or two…?”
Sexual predator…? That’s Pillow Reilly,
whose lewdness winds up insufficiently wily.
     Linguist Foam Chomsky's an activist, goad --
a philosopher, too. (Foam treks many a road.)
“Free, free at last…free from (bleck!) bathtub ring,”
sings a diff’rent Doc Martin, one call’d Loofah King.
     Shucks! Sarah Huckabee Sandpaper’s here.
Hark as verisimilitudes (truths) disappear.
Corduroy Orbison’s rind’s a wide wale --
wide – like his register. (Dark’s his white wail.)
     Israeli PM Netting-Yahoo has need
of the West Bank and Gaza like you need a Thneed.
John Linen remarks, “I’m more famous than Jesus,”
which comment one half of the planet displeases.
     Tell Denim Elliott (Brit through ‘n’ through),
“Do audition for black roles. You’re already blue.”
No cager’s more dauntless than Kevin Garr-Nett.
Is his NBA Hall of Fame stature…? You bet!
     The songs Burlap Ives sings (none coarse as his name)
tout, e.g., “…bitty tears”…,  “…jolly Xmas…” (They’re lame.)
They mock’d Tiny Tinfoil — falsetto and all.
But then Tiny play’d – live! – at the Roy’l Albert Hall.
     Was Crochet Guevara a chum of Fidel…?
He was…but that friendship did not serve him well. 
Fred Hoylecloth – that's he who'd be Sir Fred to you –
holds the Steady State, not the Big Bang Theory, true.
     Baron Von Trappestry’s draped in a tapestry
showing Maria bleed sap from a lapis tree.
Achtung!, America! Bernie Macrylic
shows colors the KKK deems “not idyllic.”

(A work in progress)

Adjectival Order or The Most Elegant Through-composed Six-stanza’d English Nonsense Verse Ever Penn’d

First, a determiner – ‘a,’ ‘an’ or ‘the.’

Then a number or quantity – e.g., ‘three’ (duh!).  

An opinion or quality’s next, (perhaps ‘beautiful’).   

Size and age follow – assuming one’s dutiful.

Shape and/or color succeed size and age.

The adjective proper takes up the next stage –

for example, ‘Italian’ or ‘Chinese’ or ‘Greek’ –

off’ring origins – that is, the tongues people speak.

A purpose or facet ensues (one of sport…?)

whereupon there’s presented a noun of some sort.

Of course, there are ‘and’s and ‘or’s enter’d piecemeal.  

The result…? Adjectivally order’d ideal.

A Tale of Textual Harrassment

Before the days of yester,

there dwelt due west of Leicester,

beyond its housing cluster,

a crone – an empty nester --

the locals label’d Hester.

This dame (no Lady Astor)

had wed the village barr’ster --

a mouthpiece name of Buster

(young Buster’d but to ask her)

and bore him sons call’d Fester,

MacAllister and Lester.

Young Fester, “Cal” and Lester,

moreover, had a sister

whom Hester christen’d Brewster

(a name-the-child disaster

no neighbor rose to foster).

Still, thus she introduced her

at matins ev’ry Easter.

But Buster proved a shyster.

That legal beagle diss’d her

and split for pastures vaster,

lands just southwest of Ulster

Thus, mistress lost her mister.

Yea, Buster play’d the jester.

Once marriage’d lost its luster,

this blister roundly cursed her,

and, donning toque and duster…

*   *   *   *   *

…he drove a roller coaster

misnamed “The Upper Cruster.”

One day he grabb’d a sister.

(Of nuns he was a quester.)

He’d cased her. Then he’d cuss’d her,

though of cursing he’d accus’d her.

Into a car he cast her

(though not before he’d kiss’d her).

She fear'd he might molest her

so swiped from him the keys ter

the rusty Upper Cruster…

*  *  *  *  *

…then kick’d him in the keister.

(A work in progress on several fronts)

"Days of Xmas" Pageant Contestants (Not Pictured: d'Rumer S. DeRoumin and Lourdes-Lee Pinne)

10th: Piper Spighbin

  9th: Lady Stanzig

8th: Mae d'Zamilkin

7th: the Swanzas Women

6th: Keysha Laine

5th: Golde Rinques
4th: Callie ("Inga") Bertz

3rd: Fran Chence

2nd: "Tyrtle" Duffs
Tied for 1st: Anna Pahrte...
...Regina Peartree

"Days of Xmas" Pageant Contestants

In twelfth place is d'Rumer S. deRouxminn,
former nun.
In eleventh...? Lourdes-Lee Pinne:
"Twelfth's the best I've ever done." 
In tenth place…? Piper Spighbin. 
Just to enter’s been her prayer.
In ninth place…? Lady Stanzing.
She’s got somethin’ on the mayor.

In eighth place…? Mae d’Zamilkin. 
Mae’s placed ninth the last nine years.

In seventh place…? The Swanzas women.
(Just ignore the jeers!)

In sixth place…? Keysha Laine. 
Keysha’s such a pretty girl!

In fifth place…? Golde Rinques. 
She vow’d to “give the match a whirl.”

In fourth…? Cal (“Inga”) Bertz: 
“To be a nominee’s enough.”.

In third…? Fran Chence, 
who, this year, is competing in the buff.

In second place…? Ms. Tyrdle Duffs. 
And now, the env’lope, please…it’s Anna

Pahrt! Regina Peartree! Tied! 
All Xmas VIPs!*

     * Victors-In-Pageant

Donald Digs Dictatoheads

Impeachment Day, 12/18/19

I’m “Oh My God!” for you, Assad, though Adolf’s still my boy.

Signor’ Benito…? Neat! Though cats call’d Castro never cloy.
(Ceausescu…? You I’d rescue. Sure: my minions I’d deploy.)

I dig Duterte’s dastardlys and Erdogan’s eclat.

Francisco faded wa-a-a-a-ay to soon. I loved Gaddafi’s hat.
(I’m into hats: my hair’s a hat.) Hussein’s hat’s where it’s at.

I’m mad for Idi. Such a sweetie! Uncle Joe, as well.

The Jongs (-il, -un) and Kraprayoon: you boyos bang my bell.
Hey, Leonid! (I miss ya, kid – more since your big wall fell.)

My man Mugabe! (Hey, there, Bobby: keep Zimbabwe swingy!)

My pal Nikita’s senoritas let you grab their thingy!
The two Okellos…? Lovely fellows. (Putin…? Cute, but clingy.)

Nguyen Ai Quoc…? Hey, Doc: you rock! Say! Have you met Raul…?

Sese Seko’s on the take…? Oh, well: he’s no one’s fool.
Tafari (aka Selassie): that man’s born to rule.

The Urbans, Popes…? They weren't the dopes some made 'em out to be.

Vargas…? Win…? Good friends you’ve been – like mother’s milk to me.
Nor can I say too much today about my buddy Xi.

Yo! Yayah Kahn! Yeah, you’re “me mon.”  If you can’t do it, who…?

And Mao Zedong…? No, folks aren’t wrong: I cherish chairmen, too.
I'll so-o-o-o outdo ‘em all – and build that wall! – before I’m through! 

What's For Din? A Sound Poem

PORK…Pork…Pork Chop…(Porkahontas)…

pork chop…porkchop…(Pork pie hat)…

chop-chop…poke chop…(Porkatello,
Idaho is where it’s at)…

pokechop…po’kchop…(Po’ boys in
Poughrkeepsie)… poach…poke…(Porky Pig)…

oke…OK...okay…ok…ø…¢…c...
(Dessert…? Some fruit…? A fig…?)

Just Say It! A New Sound Poem to Read Aloud

Who’d urge all brewers: "Post your ABVs!”
must just say "Know!"
Who’d dote on music dramas Japanese
must just say "Noh."

Who keeps a wildebeest despite its slime
must just say "Gnu."
Who, as he sings, "So, sue me!" Nathan mimes,
must just say "Nu…?" 
     * Nathan Detroit, one of the main guys in 
Broadway’s Guys and Dolls.

You’d freak for Speaker Gingrich (like Callista)…?
Just say "Newt"!
You’d "rah!" for Rochne ("Call me ‘Coach,’ not 'Mistah'!")…?
Just say “Knute"! 

Who’s sick of genders masc and genders fem
must, then, say "neut."
Who’s picking candidates who'd "End the Dem!"
again says "Newt."

You’d choose to move, to leave the Bering Straits…?
You’d just say "Nome." 
You'd post stone dwarves inside your garden gates…?
You’d just say "gnome."

You’d shout out to the dowager of Jordan…?
Just say "Noor."
You know that lightship in the Thames you're boardin'…?
Just say "Nore."

Ask’d where -- when JFK got shot -- grew grass,
you’d just say "knoll."
Ask’d who was ("Vey!") Prince Sihanouk's top brass,
you’d just say "Nol."

You're hacking Mommie…? Type her maiden name.
Then just say "nee."
Who cracks up over knights of Python fame…?
They just say 'Ni-."

You'd "friend" the ten Hebraic Patriarchs…?
You’d just say "Noah."
Give oceanic scientists top marks…?
You’d just say "NOAA."

Some Scottish nihilists (redundant, si…?):
they just say "nae."
Some other Scotish nihilists…? Let's see...
they just say "Na." 

A comic star whose folks haled from the shtetl…?
Just say "Nye."*
Atomic number 28! (It’s metal.)
Just say "Ni." 
     * I.e., sketch comedy maestro Louis 
(pronounced 'Louie').

Famed Caesar/Harbach comic flick…?
Just say "No, No, Nanette."
You'd do your Robin Williams schtick…?
Say "Na-nu"! (Don't forget.) 

The gnostics know, though all don't always say:
some just say “gnosis."
Most antiquaries love their Linear A:
they just say 'Knossos."

Rock's Jocko M…? Rock's Donny York…?
They just say "Sha-na-na."
Your feminists…? They just say "NOW."
(They're so-o-o-o-o petit bourgeoise.)

John Sununu…? 
Nonsense! (Who knew…?)

A Spoonerism ("Vale of Tears...?")

Vale of Tears…? A metaphor 
for life’s distress. (Most dread it.)  
"Tale of Virs"…? A roman 
of the Roman men who tread it.*

     Moral:

Life before (and after!) death...?
'Tis thought 'tis naught but shibboleth. 

     * The ‘it’ appearing at the end of the 
last line of verse is intended to refer to 
the valley. If that pronoun is heard as 
referring to the metaphor, then the final 
line should be amended to read “…men 
who spread it.”

A Spoonerism ("Charles Dickens...")

Charles Dickens crafts a “Carol”
mending Scrooge, once landlord feral.
Darl’s* chickens…? Fancied birds
acknowledged not in Faulkner’s words.

     Moral:

Charles’s cranks and spooks...? Just curious.
Bundren’s boy…? Unsound and furious!

     * Darl Bundren eventually goes mad in 
William Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. No Bundrens

appear in the same author's The Sound and 
the Fury -- as far as this editor is aware.

A Limerick ("Charles Ollier's son....")

Charles Ollier's boy Bill, for his sins,
insists ‘fish’ with 'laugh''s ‘g-h’ begins.
Its 'i'...? ‘O’ -- as in ‘women.’
('Sh'...? 'Potion' I’m skimmin’.)
En ghin, tiall such ghotigholk tied ghons…? *

     * Or, en fin, shall such fishfolk shed fins...?

The Twenty Six Outré'd <-AY>s of Xmas: a Doggerel Advent Calendar in Meter & Rhyme

A is Adeste: "O come all ye fai-…"
B’s magus Balthazar, one of a trey.

C…? C is Comet. He pulls Santa’s sleigh.

D’s Donder, getting in (lots!) Comet’s way.

E’s “Ev’ry mother’s child,” trill’d by Tormé.*

F’s shneyman Frosty: “I’m melting...? Oy vay!”
     * The great Mel Tormé co-wrote and 
sang the best rendition of "The Christmas 
Song" -- pacé Nat Cole.

G’s Santa’s Goodies. Check out that array!

H…? Hallelujah: archangels’ ‘hooray.’

I…? I is Icicles – outside! (No tray.)

J’s those bells, Jingle bells…all the damn way!

K is Kris Kringle, a Claus soubriquet

L is “Lulay” – “bye-bye, lulee Lulay.”

M’s Merry gentle Men no things dismay.

N is Noël. “Bon Noël,” Français say.

O is O Tannenbaum, tree aka.
P…? P is Presents, folks' Xmas mainstay.

Q’s Quick, a part of the elf’s** resumé.

R…? R is Rudolph. His nose...? Tres outré.

     ** The so-called "jolly old elf so lively 
and quick" appears in Mr. Clement Moore's 
"A Visit from St. Nicholas."

S is St. Nicholas, dude o' the day.

T is the Tinsel o’er branches we lay.

U’s Up the chimney. (It’s just Kringle’s way.)

V…? V is Vixen. (Do reindeer vote “Neigh”…?)

W’s Wenceslaus. (Miracle play…?)

X…? X is ‘Xmas’ -- a summary way.

Y is the Yule log – the Mock in UK.

Z-z-z-z-zs…? Dreams on Xmas Eve. Then...
     
                          Christmas Day!

Z Doesn't Always Go Straight Home: Another Spree For Agee

     Imagine each of the nonsense verses appearing below
 paired with a complementary image, and the full set -- 
thirty text/image pairs -- arrayed on the multiple leaves 
of an accordion-fold booklet (or perhaps a series of 
booklets), the edges of any three adjacent pages of 
which resemble nothing more nor less than the very 
letter -- Z -- which the entire doggerel ensemble is 
busy relentlessly celebrating.

Z goes along. "'Tis its
'get-along' must. A tried 
goin' against the grain 
once: 'twas a bust.” Now, as 
Z goes about, must A 
opt to adjust...?) 

Z goes all in. "BT- 
X-A I’ll buy. If one'd 
live like an ampersand, 
must one not try...?” (A's so-o-o-o 
hopin' Z’s efforts do 
not go awry.)

Z's goin' ape, or so 
W claims: "All texts 
Z sinks its hooks into 
go up in flames. Unless 
Z goes away..." (But e-
nough with word games.)

Z goes behind B's con-
servat'ry shed. “If B's 
gard'ners catch sight of me, 
I’m good as dead.” (“'Tis well 
known Z goes both ways,” some
straight letter said.)

Z goes for broke, bettin' 
all of its dough. “I’ve just 
gotta go big. 'Tis the 

sole way to go.” (B’d ba-
nanas go, if big bucks 
Z'd bleedin' blow.)

Z goes berserk -- nor it's 
not a nice sight. (Goin' 
Bodmin or bonkers is
never alright...although
B claims, "Tis better than
bein' uptight.")

"Clang" goes the toll, causin' 
Z to go crazy, its 
neurons a-spin and its 
vision a haze. ("Z goes 
home," scribbles Jon. "Let not 
C limn him lazy.") 

Z goes down (Moe says) where 
no glyph's yet been. (Z's not 
down by the riverside --

Yangtze or Seine: Z'd soon 
drown.) Z goes down for the 
count...eight...nine...ten! 

Early, and often, Z 
goes in the draft, as it 
seems like E's teams are a

tad understaff'd. And that 
extra mile Z goes...? Both
D and E laugh'd.

Goin' for gold, Z goes 
further than most. Z's seen 
goin' Full Monty by

F. (Z's reposte…?) Z goes 
fishin' instead of a-
wishin'...almost. 

Z's goin' grey, or, as 
G terms it, 'fawn.' Z goes 
gunnin' for all who would
mock. (Would you, Jon...?) Z's re-
tainin' the law firm of 
Goe, Wynn & Gonne.

Z hand-in-hand goes, with 
"Mademoiselle," although 
rarely straight home, as some 
storybooks tell. (Keep this 
up, Z, and H might pen
Z Goes to Hell.) 

Sure, Z goes in for the 
wag's repertoire. E,g., 
here's one Z tells: "Seems that 
one day an R, with a 
priest and a rabbi, goes
into a bar..."

Z goes to jail, goes di-
rectly to jail -- no "pass 
Go," no "twin Benjamins."
Ditto no bail. J goes, 
too, just for fun. (Neither
letter's for sale.)

Z goes kaput. A pre-
limin'ry heat ends with 
Z concuss'd -- crush'd in his 
GoKart's front seat. Z'll go 
kickin' 'n' screamin' to... 
(Where's the next meet...?)

Z goes a-knockin,' though
not to Z's told. Cautions 
K: "Do not enter here."
(K's so-o-o-o the scold.) If Z 
goes for the kill, K will 
never g(r)o(w) old.

Hearin' the quarterback's 
"Hut one...hut two...", Z goes 
long, like A-team wide re-
ceivers should do. (Z goes 
limp once Z's sack'd, as Z 
always is, nu...?)

"Goin' my way...?" asks The 
Wanderin' Q as that 
letter goes marchin' to 
drums only you and Q 
hear. "Z's gone missin'...? Oy!:
What can I do...?"

Z's goin' nuts. "Goin' 
nuclear," U desig-
nates it. Who seconds that...?
L. Likewise Q. "Like the 
nest of the cuckoo which 
over U flew."

Z's goin' off like some 
fireworks display. 'Tis a 
Fourth of July frenzy
Z goes on, eh...? To the 
dark side Z's gone over,
to M's dismay.

Z's goin' public: "I 
know where the bodies be 
buried, those plots where they're 
plopp'd 'neath the sod -- P's, N's...
O's chassis, too." Yet Z 
trills "-dee-dah, lah-dee-"s.

Z's goin' paperless. 
"I'll go so green: U'll see 
pea, pear, pistachio, 
aquamarine..." (When Z 
goes, Z goes pro -- as in
'Wien'...'preen'...'baleen'...)

Z's goin' postal. Z's
fete (accompli) gives a 
whole 'nother meaning to
'dead letter.' T is the 
c(h)ap which relates "I go 
Pogo"...not Z.

Quietly Z goes, on 
lower-case feet. All dis-
turbing Z's hush S shall
shush: "Ple-e-e-ease: 'Discrete' be the 
watchword. Don't make me (don't
make me) repeat!"

Z's goin' rogue, a move
Palin might push. Says she, 
"Pull a McCain, Mister,
not a George Bush." (T's so 
hoping Z won't end up
flat on its tush.)

Go Set a Watchman Z
goes at with zest. "Watchman's 
good -- tho' that Mockingbird 
one's still her best. It would 
go down a treat if the
pair coalesced." 

"Go tell it, 'top o' that 
mountain: 'Behold: Z shall 
not go to sleep till Aunt
Rhody be told.'" (Z's gone 
soft. Has been since he turn'd
sev-...'ral years old.)

Z's goin' under, not 
smilin' but frownin.' Says 
Z, "Just like Stevie*: not
wavin' but drownin.'" (Z's 
"go"in's on show Z likes 
'verb'in' o'er 'noun'in.')

     * Poet Stevie Smith famously 
ended a poem with something 
resembling this line.

"Z's goin' viral," says 
Phi Gamma Pi. "Gamma's 
"Go with the flow''s been Z's
rallying cry." (When Greek 
geeks speak of flow, Z's the
flower, not I.)

"Go ___(X)___, young man"'s like Y's
"Go your own way -- that or 
"Go Z! (Fan tutte)!" So 
says Wolfgang A. (Z will, 
fin'lly, go home, only
just not today.)