Not if society practices piety.
Who'd dare say that y’all ain’t the belle of the ball…?
I know no one at all with the requisite gall.
Why’s the cream of the crop rarely land at the top…?
Though some may make that stop, most eventually drop.
Is one foolish to wed on the Day of the Dead…?
Nonsense! Somewhere I read: “Even stiffs scruples shed.”
Looms the edge of the end just beyond yonder bend…?
If so, heaven forefend: we’re in deep doodoo, friend.
Knows the meaning of ‘poor’ ev’ry father of four…?
Yep! It’s budget’ry war keeping wolves from the door.
Might great gaggles of geese pull the plug on world peace…?
Sure, so text the police: “Make the ‘gak-gak-gak’ cease!”
Do the Analects tell of the Harr’wing of Hell…?
They do not. Still, don’t yell: they Zen Buddhists treat well.
Can the Island of Io sustain, in its bayou (Hey! This ain’t Ohio) a crane with one eye…?
Oh.
D’you suppose you could cram Mason jars of (say) jam into cyclotrons, ma’am…?
Yes, if less than a dram.
Might the King of the Khyber, with help from his “nighbor,” untangle this fiber…?
Nope! King’s an imbiber.
Let a mandolin band play Loew’s “Lay o' the Land”…?
Yes…unless they’re so bland that their luthier's been cann’d.
“Holy Mother of Mercy!” exclaim'd Walker Percy. “What’s happened to Circe…?
(She’d moved to New Jerce.)
His question, though haute, is quite short (and I quote): “What’s afloat in the moat…?”
(Quotha! Nothin' of note.)
If her next oath of office she takes with a cough, thus: “A-h-h-h-hem!” – who’s pissed off…? Us…?
Nix! Get off the scoff bus!
Has Vern of Versailles earn'd a piece of the pie…?
Sure. (And there but for “Why can’t the English…?” go I.)
Who’s Quixote of Queens…?
Don’s that Don, by all means, stashing billions of beans into taper-fit jeans.
Which new rules of the road disallow being tow'd eating pie a la mode…?
None in binary code.
What think Freudian shrinks of the smile of the Sphinx…?
Most draw psychical links to this story: it drinks.
Tell me: who takes the crown as the talk of the town…?
Ethel Isadore Browne. She'll take nowt lyin' down.
Why’s the U S of A always wind up this way…?
Though I rue the cliché: ‘cuz its feet are of clay.
Which – this vat of Vouvray or my café au lait – contains vitamin K…?
Neither, to my dismay.
Once the flags get unfurl’d, do the diatribes hurl’d leave one’s hair firmly curl’d...?
‘Tis the way of the world.
Where’s the Xyst of Xi’an..? Where’s the Yak of Yaiku…? Where’s the Zorse of Zagreb…?
Not in any known zoo.
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