-Cide by -Cide or Murders He Wrote

Moi? Contemplate self-murder? Nah! I’m fa-a-a-a-a too "nah"cissistic.
To kill another, on the other hand? That's fatalistic.

While often bored with board games (though Parcheesi I’ve not tried),

I murder’d Colonel Mustard -- and was tried for Clueicide.

Insisting I’d not slit my wrists, committing suicide,

I massacred the March King -- and was tried for Sousacide.

Though I, like you, revere the gnu (I poachers can’t abide),

still, wildebeests I’ve wasted -- and been tried for gnuicide. 

*  *  *  *  *

While claiming I’d not slay the wife – how could I harm my bride? --
I poison’d her pastrami -- and was tried for shrewicide.

While noting I’d no Kigmie kill (“So cute! So cute!” I’d cried),

I snuff'd a pair and, then and there, was tried for shmooicide.

A female Doctor? (Some have mock'd her maiden TARDIS ride.)
But, no: not me! I'll not, you see, be tried for Whoicide. 

While mouthing, “Me? Dispatch a flea? Such cavil hurts my pride,”

I crucified a zooful -- and was tried for zooicide.

*  *  *  *  *

Berating gender bias, I felt uber-qualified

to decapitate Capote -- and get tried for Truicide.

While cleaning out the septic tank, well-arm'd with fungicide,

I brain’d each bac I bared there -- and was tried for sewercide.

Insisting, “I’m pro-Indian…” (whatever that implied),

I scalp’d Black Elk and Red Cloud -- and was tried for Siouxicide.*
     * N.B.: I was not tried for croaking Crow King. 

Moi? Contemplate self-murder? Nah! I’m still too "nah"cissistic.

To shoot or smother some poor other? That's (I've learn'd) linguistic.

Two Homophonic Doggerel Distichs

Carlo Collodi, Italian-born teller of tots' tall tales, talks of Pinocchio's nose.
Karl "Loco" Lowe-Dee,* our arboriculturist, plants, prunes, then fells, our pin oak. (He grows sloes.)
     * Not to be confused with Carl O'Culo, de humongous-posterior'd poet-in-residence -- why no one knows. 

0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55: all Fibonaccis.
"8, 9, 10 -- maybe a dozen -- Jews actually died in the Holocaust"...? Tall fib o' Nazis.

Calendar Caliente or Chili Doggerel

Pins 'n' needles! Eyes 'n' hooks!

Chill January's hues seem slates,

a grey-grim play of sleet. She looks

a climate prime for skis 'n' skates.

This chili pepper celebrates

by donning earmuffs, scarf 'n' gloves

to undertake not guff he hates

but thin-ice skating -- stuff he loves.

Pins 'n' needles! Hooks 'n' eyes!

Fleet February's twenty eight, 

in falling three days short, supplies

less shot to venerate one's mate.

This chili pepper's running late

delivering his valentine.

He must (and soon!) accelerate:

"Get goin'!" That's his bottom line.

Hooks 'n' eyes 'n' nuts 'n' bolts!

Mid-March's Ides can’t hide Spring's flowers.

Lads in love, cavorting colts,

big blossoms cop from blooming bowers.

Thefts like theirs take sev'ral hours,

maybe less. (No more than two.) 

This chili's savoir faire ne'er sours:

just hear him blurt, "These buds? For you!"

Hooks 'n' eyes 'n' bolts 'n' nuts!

Escape an April's Easter eggs?

Nope! Basket fill’d, this chili struts,

sashaying on his own two pegs.

"May I make mucho more?" he begs. 

"The ankle biters love 'em so,

nor's FDA releasing regs

suppressing eggs. Say I, ‘Let's go!’"

Bolts 'n' nuts 'n' forks 'n' spoons! 

Which gifting day in May's the worst?

De Mayo Cinco France impugns;

preferring May Day -- that's the first.

"The best," rants William Randolph Hearst, 

"is World Press Freedom Day -- the third." 

(This chili, Mom's gifts undispers’d,

orates. He prates, "They're all absurd!")

Bolts 'n' nuts 'n' spoons 'n' forks!

In June, platoons of grads 'n' dads

(though tagg’d by family “dweebs” 'n' “dorks”) 

get gifts -- designer ties in plaids.

This chili'd rather troll for shads.

With six-packs in his tackle box,

he trawls among the lily pads.

(His catches cache shad roes, shad lox.) 

Spoons 'n' forks 'n' Spocks 'n' Kirks!

Jejune July's supremacists

malign, ‘mid flags ‘n’ fireworks,

more recent settlers in their midsts.

This chili simply coexists.

Like Pete 'n' Woody belts out he

(in dissing these recidivists),

"...this land was made for you and mee-e-e-e!"

Spoons 'n' forks 'n' Kirks 'n' Spocks!

The puns of August beam their rays
on circus clowns in pleated frocks
who juggle balls come circus days.
But do not think these chilis gays,

their frocks 'n' fright wigs notwithstanding --
though most do play cabarets

where juggling junk is most demanding.

Kirks 'n' Spocks 'n' things 'n' wings!

September signals: “Back to school!”

This chili in his backpack brings

an Apple XR iPhone. (Cool!)

But there are jealous chilis who’ll

report this to his home-room teacher.

She’ll impound the phone (that ghoul!).

'Tis worse than pointless to beseech her.

Kirks 'n' Spocks 'n' wings 'n' things!

October’s ears will hear, “Surprise!”

‘cuz bombshells each election brings

most napping polsters traumatize.

Does such hold true for all those guys?

Nope! Some Autumnals do quite well.

This chili? “Tricks or treats,” he cries

from deep inside his pumpkin shell.  

Wings 'n' things 'n' needles 'n' pins!

Bees, bears 'n' bats -- all beasts who snooze --

begin to don November skins

(in lieu of hitting Veracruz).

This chili, though, dons buckle shoes

(his hat 'n' belt sport buckles, too)

and goes in search of turkeys, whose

pluck’d carcasses he’ll barbecue.

Wings 'n' things 'n' pins 'n' needles!

Come December’s holiday

unless you’re Dum or Dee (those Tweedles),

soon you'll winterize your sleigh

and, not unlike this chili, say,

“Before I and my deer take flight,

and give this sack of toys away,

keep Xmas all! And so: goodnight!”