Repost: A Lesser Mandala

Dawns the Year of the Rat –
time to knot one's cravat,

don equestrian hat 
and suede socks,
grab one’s fat fungo bat
and, departing one’s flat,
nail naff neighbors – ker-splat! -- 
with lobb'd rocks.
Dear oh dear: here’s the Year of the Ox.

Dawns the Year of the Ox.
First, reset all your clocks.
Doing thus should outfox 
Rodney Steiger,
whose homage to Guy Fawkes
closes Pandora’s box:
Just hope Herr Muller talks 
to Herr Geiger!
But look here: here’s the Year of the Tiger.

Dawns the Year of the Tiger.
A white cub haunts my gar-
age; full-grown cats cry, “Gr-r-r-r…” 
(bad habit).
And when habitat’s nigh gar-
ment districts, feed dry gar-
lic toasts to it, via 
Dad's sabot.
Give a cheer! Here’s the Year of the Rabbit.

Dawns the Year of the Rabbit.
Bud (“Who’s on first...?”) Abbott
gets strip'd of his jabot 
for braggin,’
while Costello’s so drab, it
seems Lou ought to nab it.
Without it, his habit's 
seen saggin.’
Nothing queer: here’s the Year of the Dragon.

Dawns the Year of the Dragon,
when thirsts, off the wagon,
take more than one flagon 
to slake.
And, although I loathe raggin,’
green grog gets me gaggin.’
I s’ppose I’ll be baggin’ 
this take.
Nowt to fear: here’s the Year of the Snake.

Dawns the year of the Snake,
When each roue and rake
channels Samuel (“Jake”) 
F. B. Morse
and dons thaub of a sheik,
boils his Sal’sbury steak
and throws up, for Pete’s sake. 
(My! How coarse!
Hold your sneer: here’s the Year of the Horse.)

Dawns the Year of the Horse.
Must each child of divorce
to the island of Cors-
ica float...?
Yes, she must! (If she’s Norse,
sugar daddies, of course,
shall supply a sound source 
for her boat.)
Now we’re nearing the Year of the Goat.

Dawns the Year of the Goat.
Ev’ry grandee of note
must remark (and I quote): 
“I’m a junkie!”
Whereupon each must troat
us his suicide note.
It’s as if each one wrote 
“Death: how funky!”
Dry that tear: here’s the Year of the Monkey.

Dawns the Year of the Monkey,
when girls who wax spunky –
like Elsa or Punky 
nee Brewster –
sleep with boys who look hunky,
whose pecs appear chunky.
Not one proves a flunky 
like Wooster.)
Let’s be clear: here’s the Year of the Rooster.

“Dawns the Year of the Rooster,"
sings Simon to Schuster.
“Tis time, sir, that you stir 
the grog.
All it needs is a booster,
the way good stuff us’d ter.”
Thereon, Carly loos'd her 
pet frog.
Let us veer towards the Year of the Dog.

Dawns the Year of the Dog,
when small shifts in typog-
raphy made on one’s blog 
show up big.
Yet, although I would flog
neither dead horse nor hog,
the result is but smog. 
Do you dig...?
It appears here’s the Year of the Pig.

Dawns the Year of the Pig,
when folks claim how this gig
must fall flat and renege 
on its promise:
there’s the Joe who’s a prig,
those who don’t give a fig,
and one mean Mr. Big: 
Doubtful Thomas.
(Sorry: no years devoted to llamas.)