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Thursday, October 10, 2019

Humphrey in Hell: a Constrained Rewrite

     (Day 9) 
Fred C. Dobbs: "If you're plannin' on smokin' them cigars, 
you'll need matches. Where's your matches...? Let's see 'em."
Gold Hat: "Matches...? We ain't got no matches. We don't
need no matches. I don't have to show you no stinkin' matches." 

     (Day 736) 
Fred C. Dobbs: "If you're as poor as you claim, your serapes 
would be full o' patches. Where's your patches...? Let's see 'em.
Gold Hat: "Patches...? We ain't got no patches. We don't need
no stinkin' patches...  

     (Day 82,054) 

Fred C. Dobbs: "If you'd just come from Ash Wednesday services, 
your foreheads would be smudged with ashes. Where's your ashes...? 
Let's see 'em."
Gold Hat: "Ashes...? We ain't got no ashes…

     (Day 9,998,976,001) 

Fred C. Dobbs: "If your compadres were actual members of the 
Italian Socialist Party, they'd be Fascists. Where's your Fascists...? 
Let's see 'em.”
Gold Hat: "Fascists...?”

     (Day 6,392,875,620,395,847) 

Fred C. Dobbs: "If you keep insistin' on sashayin' around in them 
skimpy two-piece bathin' suits, you'll need pageants. Where's 
your pageants...? Let's see 'em...
Gold Hat: “…” 

    (Day 83,492,736,574,839,283,759,293)

Fred C. Dobbs: "If you're really Muslims you’ll need hajjes. 
Where's your hajjes...?" 

Teddy Fare or Who'd Make Smooth (and Delicious) Fried Rice...? He'd Need Heed a Rough Rider's Advice (A Wok in Progress or Spooner on Steroids: You Decide)

President Theodore Roosevelt's most-frequently quoted maxim must surely be his famous, "Walk softly and carry a big stick." Less widely known is his counsel to a young Chinese-American friend and fellow hero of the charge up San Juan Hill which takes the form of his advice regarding the successful preparation of what would become this friend's -- indeed, this future White House chef's -signature dish, Colonel Roo's Felt Chicken:

"To carry this off, Li Yan, stick with a big wok!"


Pub Crawls / Pubs, Scrawl'd

Shall not snuggery sojourns and speakeasy spree/rambles
start with iambic pentameter preambles?

Of all the bogus bars, gin mills, canteens,
sakayas, gay bars, brew pubs, cuca shops,
red lanterns, supper rooms, saloons, shebeens,
meyhanes, BYOs, pieds-a-hops
in all the urbs and ‘burbs about this ball,
why’d whetted whistles sing of these oases...?
Why these (trump’d-up tied bars and taverns all)...?
Why framed milieus...?
Why famed “who’s who”s,
feign’d views, stain’d loos,
fake wait-staff crews...?
Indeed, why choose
bent booze and brews
from fabricated places...?

The Angler's Rest in Wodehouse's Mulliner Nights 

A Wodehouse roadhouse! There I’d first while hours
(“Miss Postlethwaite: a half, please, of your best!”),
my Mild amid their Stouts and Lemon Sours.
In short, I’d hang (in shorts) at Angler’s Rest,
to savor sev’ral spells – ideally, dozens –
with Mulliner (that’s Mister M to you)...
regaled with tales of M’s amazing cousins:
the silly stuff
(such guff, much, fluff;
such puff: much, bluff,
yet ne’er enough)
he claims they say and do.

The Alpha Inn in Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle"

The Alpha Inn enjoys a parlour bar.
It’s Windigate’s. I’d cue there, third to order.
Those two (Hello! You well know who they are)
distinguish Alpha’s geese from Alpha’s porter.
The first is Doyle’s PI; through clues he combs
to crimes from times before electric chairs.
He’s Doctor Watson’s Johnson, Sherlock Holmes!
One dick, one doc
and – drei – me nigh.
“But why...?” you’re asking.
“Why me...? Why...?”
It’s Holmes and Watson, bre’rs!
Let share their drafts who dares.
Now’s closing time…? Who cares!

The Admiral Benbow Inn in Stevenson's Treasure Island 

A “pleasant-sittyated” grogshop, pegg’d
The Adm’ral Benbow Inn in RLS’s
Treasure Island, wherein single-leg’d
Jack Tars ‘n’ salts (some, cooks) brook mix’d successes.
There’s where I’d deign drop anchor, near Kitt’s Hole,
to, parch’d, partake of Hawkins’s strong rum...
and, perch’d before the fire, well-stok’d with coal,
taste tunes tenfold,
from sea dogs old,
of maps enfolding
secrets sold
for buried gold,
of “…heat and cold…
and all the old
romance retold…”
(including some concerning mould-
infected apples in the hold)
until my eardrum’s numb
(with sailor’s tales a-hum).

Rick's Cafe Americaine in Michael Curtiz's Casablanca*

I’d pen a phrase for fans of classic flicks
like “…all the bars in all the towns…(etcetera),”
or maybe “Everybody comes to Rick’s,”
then scribble out, in verse, an alphabet or a
haiku, one penn’d best at Signor Ferreri’s,
abetting his Blue Parrot crew’s new tricks
to loot from Blaine Américain sans “sorry”s.
(You see how everyone does come to Rick’s...?)
I’d steal a Steinway, swipe a Sam to “Play it!”
(Did Ilsa say “…again…”? No, she did not,
Though Sascha…) But, alas! I could not stay. It
works out quite slick
for Lund and Vic,
but Lou and Rick
do exit schtick
and, what with visas none too thick,
those Nazi plots grow hot.
(Loike, a poisson could git shot.) 

     * Curtiz directed the film. The screenplay was based 
on a play written by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison.

The Chalice in Jaroslav Hasek's The Good Soldier Svejk 

I’d drink with Svejk a black from Palivek,
who, with his wife, landlords it o’er The Chalice.
I’d drink. I’d wink. I’d warn (in cashier’s Czech)
of undercover snitch Bretschneider’s malice,
and hope, with this, my twist to Hasek’s tale,
no altered u’d occur, ordaining poor,
course Palivek to not sit out, in jail,
his war, nor Svejk
the eldertyke
to bike (not hike) 
around the reich
Battuta-like 
on path and pike,
misfortunes to explore.

Pseudo Goose

Hark! Mark! 
Blue Dogs do bark
when caucuses come into town.
Industry flacks,
financ’d by their PACs,
will cut taxes: what’s up must come down.

Cy Simon met a meta-pieman going to a fair.
Said meta-pieman said to Cy, “Man! You’re displaced, but where?”
Said Cy said to said meta-pieman, “I’m here. What’s so funny...?”
Said meta-pieman, “Funny...? Nope. But can you cope with punny?”

Droll Mother Goose, when her wont was to squander,
would ring Rent-A-Reindeer, reserving a Donder.
Though no soul than me is of Claus faunae fonder,
I fear that, for years, she’s been bilk'd: Blitzen conn'd her!

Needles and pins! Believe me, you guys:
it’s zilch that a Lincoln or Washington buys.
A half Quarter Pounder with small drink and fries
will exhaust ev’ry purse. Frickin’ Mickey D lies.

Little Bo Peep has meep'd her sheep,
not seeming to care she’d malign'd them.
Leave ‘em alone. Recent research has shown.
as they grow, they’ll put Bo’s tales behind them.

Little Jack Horner, ne Jacques (he’s a fore’gner)
puts framboise and peche in his pie.
If he stuck in his thumb, pulling out (say) a plum,
there’d be none more bewilder'd than I.

Jack and Jill went up to Hill,
a bankrupt Benny. After
poor Jack fell down, that tapped-out clown
joined Jill in shrill, daft laughter.)

Ron McDonald’s bought the farm:
E, I, E, I, O.
Doctors warn, “Fools come to harm
when scarfing foodstuffs faux.
     In McNuggets, there’s
fecal matter, hairs.
       Ronald’s shtick...? Getting sick.
Wouldn’t touch a carrot stick.
      Ron McDonald’s bought the farm:
Now he’s eating crow,
a gastronomic ‘ho.’
"The docs all told you so.
So: next time, listen, Bro!
You shoulda just said 'No!'
And now we're done in. Doh!"

Little Ms Muffet reads on her tuffet,
interpreting ‘curds’ and ‘whey.’
“I read ‘em because…well, they’re there. Still, why does
‘Jimmy Buffet’ not rhyme with ‘buffet’?”

Pete, organic pumpkin breeder,
sold his crop to Harris-Teeter.
Gourds this pricey I’ve not seen.
(It’s never easy bein' green.)

Punday's Girl Children (Not to be Confused with Your Kids of Whatever Gender)

This one-month array of female rugrats et. al. can be read as two amplified fortnights, four eight-day weeks or an octave of hemiweeks. You decide!

Monday's child.* Her face looks great.
Of Tuesday's child be grace the fate...?**
         * She's "fair of face" in the famous 
fortune-telling nursery rhyme. 
         ** The rhyme's lyric insists she's 
full of it.
Wednesday's child needs armor plate.* 
For Thursday's child, larks lurk in wait.** 
        * She is, after all, (or so states the 
rhyme) "full of woe."
        ** Not unlike Pip in "Great 
Expectations," this child has "far to go."

Friday's child does love create.
Saturday's child lifts loads o' weight.*
        * Saturdays' child -- again according 
to the rhyme -- must work for a living.
Sunday's child. (The ideal mate!)
"Monday, Monday..."* Trust...? Or hate...?
        * Mamas and the Papas apparently 
"...can't trust that day."

Tuesday Weld...?* She's Dobie's date.
Wednesday's kid: no sister Kate. 
        * Not to be confused with Ruby Tuesday, 
that Tuesday** being Mick's date.
        ** "That Tuesday" isn't Fat Tuesday. 
Neither Weld nor Ruby are in the least obese.   
Thursday* tells of Syme's debate.
Friday...?** Crusoe's third estate. 
          * That's The Man Who Was Thursday 
not Thursday Next, Jasper Fford's creation.
          ** Not to be confused with His Girl 
Friday, the film featuring Rosalind Russell.

On Saturday she parties late.
At Sunday's,* ushers pass the plate.
         * I.e., at the sermons of evangelist 
Billy Sunday.
Monday's Montag's rough translate-...
...shun Daytona's figure eight.

Ain't Sheffield Wednesday's football great!
Floyd Thursby...? He be Sam Spade's bait.*
         * In The Maltese Falcon
Her fried eggs perch upon her plate.
Still, sadder days may yet await!

Sun 'n' haze (no fog to date).
Mounties always get their...mate...?
Two stays snapp'd: who's overweight...?
When's Tey's* Miss Pym to meet her "fete"...?
         * Mystery writer Josephine Tey's 
character may or may not have earned 
a celebration.

Thirsty...? Sure. (Tey'll take hers straight.)
Fright...? Tey…? Scared she is -- first date.
She'd sat a day...or six...or eight...
 ...and, someday, verbs she'll conjugate. 

Monde de lui: c'est tres "oh fait." 
Tooth decay's laid waste her gait.
Then, any Wednesday,* license plates...
...return her to the starting gate.**
         * Not to be confused with Any 
Wednesday, a film featuring a Fonda girl.
         ** Doing metal-shop piece work in an 
Illinois prison facility leaves anybody so 
occupied with hours aplenty in which to 
count the days.

Christmas Day: A Mare Egg...

     "A Mare Egg, Her Wrist, "Miss Two 'U'"