Donald Digs Dictatoheads

I’m “Oh My God!” 
for you, Assad, 
though Adolf’s still my boy.
“Il Duch” (Benito)? 
Neato! 
Cats call’d Castro never cloy.
(Ceausescu?
Him I’d rescue. See?
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 into Idi. 
such a sweetie! 
Uncle Joe, as well.
The Jongs (-il, -un) 
and Kraprayoon: 
those 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.
Pol Pot? Kinda 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? Ass! (Be-
came Selassie.) 
That man’s born to rule.

The Urbans, Popes?
You’re not the dopes 
some make you 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.
Hey! I’ll outdo ‘em all – 
each bloody one – 
before I’m through! 

Only Connected ala "Dry Bones" -- & Well Within My Comfort Zones

My arroz pone's connected to my...butter’d scone; 
my butter’d scone's connected to my...Cotes du Rhone; 
my Cotes-du-Rhone's connected to my...drop zone; 
my drop zone's connected to my...Eten phone; 
my Eten phone's connected to my...fretful groan; 
my fretful groan's connected to my..."grow-your-own!"; 
my "grow-your-own"'s connected to my..."Home Alone"; 
my "Home Alone"'s connected to my...intel (blown); 
my intel’s connected to my...Jonas Cohn; 
my Jonas Cohn's connected to my...Khmer-Mon;
my Khmer-Mon's connected to my...loathsome crone; 
my loathsome crone's connected to my...men's room throne; 
my men's room throne's connected to my...nose cone; 
my nose cone's connected to my...oat (wild, sown); 
my oat (wild, sown)'s connected to my...posture (prone); 
my posture (prone)'s connected to my...Quicken Loan; 
my Quicken Loan's connected to my...robot drone; 
my robot drone's connected to my..."Saint Joan"; 
my "Saint Joan"'s connected to my...Torrid Zone; 
my Torrid Zone's connected to my...undertone; 
my undertone's connected to my...varnish roan; 
my varnish roan's connected to my...Wingy Manone; 
my Wingy is connected to my...xylophone; 
my xylophone's connected to my...yawning drone; 
my yawning drone's connected to my...zits (not shown)…

NOW I hear the word of the Lord!   

Complexity

All its cockles and mussels and oysters and clams,
all its marmalades, lemon curds, jellies and jams,
all its levees and breakwaters, ditches and dams...
crowd the cosmos and leave it complex.

With its Myanmars and Monacos, Spains and Siams,
with its buggies and carriages, strollers and prams,
with its swearings and oaths, with its curses and "Damn!"s...
it's profound in a round of respects.

All its ounces and carats, its grains and its grams,
all its misters and missuses, sirs and mesdames,
all its Maxims and Morties, its Sams and its Shazams…
beg the Q&A, "What in heck’s nex'?"

With its aunties and uncles, its grampas and grams,
with its briskets and pot roasts, its veal joints and hams,
with its puppies and ponies and kittens and lambs...
how's it manage to salvage such wrecks?

All its bunkos and frauds, all its shakedowns and scams, 
all its streetcars and gondolas, trolleys and trams, 
all its "Cheerio!"s, "Ciao!"s, "So long, Sammy!"s and "Scram!"s...
tend to lead one to Windex one's specs.

With its pop quizzes, mideterms and final exams,
with its tubers and 'taters, its spuds and its yams, 
with its beanies and bonnets, its top hats and tams...
what comes next? To apostatize sex? 

All its Tinas and Trishas, its Pollys and Pams, 
all its 'were's and 'once was'es, its 'is'es and 'am's, 
all its "Splooge!"s and "Fwap!"s, its "Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am!"s...
leave it curved – both concave and convex! 

With its cookies and crackers, its melbas and grahams,
with its lintels and lock rails, its joists and its jambs,  
with its potted meats, jerkys, Tofurkys and Spams...
'tis enough to kerfuff’ Malcolm X!

Climate Change Language Exercise: Another Adventure in Linguature

The rain, ‘tis plain,
runs gainly down our lane…
though stains the drain.
The snow, we know,
must blow: drifts drift and grow.
Where're we to go?

This wind, my “frind,”

shall “sind me ‘roun’ de bind.”
My ears? They’re pinn’d.
This ice? Not nice.
(Posh Spice has stumbl’d...twice! 
What’s your advice?)

This sleet’s “fer sheet.”

My seat has lost all heat…
can’t feel my feet.
This mud? God’s blood!
We trudge through muck and crud:
a freakin’ flood!

The fog’s turn’d smog.

All soggy’s grown each tog.
We’re not agog.
This hail won’t fail
our mailman to derail.
Just one more nail…

This dust be cuss’d!

Nonpluss’d, we’re truss’d in crust.
Must we adjust?
The warming’s uncharming,
disarming. More: alarming!
Harms the farming.

Tsunami? Miami’s

still balmy, though less palmy.
Call my Mommie!
Scirocco? Morocco and Bang-
kok go on the block. (So,
where’s Iraq go?)

The fires require

attire heat-treated prior –
or you’ll perspire.
This smoke’s no joke:
Al Roker’s had a stroke.
Ya toke, ya croak!

Armageddon?

We’ve made our beddin’…