Repost: Noblesse

Drumpf 'n' Drumpf's kids to our country laid siege.
I call it vice. They cry, "Noblesse oblige!"
Drumpf spreads for Putin like crackers for cheese.
To each, t'other's "noble." So: noblesse...? Oh, please!
     Senior touts Norquist, claims Grover holds keys.
I call it blackmail. Drumpf...? "Noblesse goatees."
Senior's small hands fondle gals' As 'n' Ts.
They shout, "Abuse!" Drumpf cries, "Noblesse nookees!"
     Junior'd keep Bangalore's brides on their knees.
He...? "Muslim rules." Me...? "No! Fewer suttees!"
Senior'd have teachers pack heat while they teach.
He...? "I'm for safety." Me...? "Quick! Re-impeach!"

Repost: The "I'm Not Bald!" Eagle

My Russian dramatic fave...? Chekhov's The Seagull.
Norwegians who'll trigger your tears...? Edvard Grieg'll.
The canine folks learn to love...? Peke-... Wait...wait! Beagle!
Worst guilty obsession...? (Is Oprah illegal...?)
What weakens one's will to win...? Chronic fatigue'll.
Our favorite dead princess...? Di [sob!] was so regal.
And who's more distressing than Ben "Bugsy" Siegel...?
A golden-vibrissae'd (Drumpf: "I'm not bald!") eagle. 

Repost: A Most Unusual 'Day': An Alphabet

A is for Arbor Day. ('Tain't "Any Wednesday.")
B's for the birthdays of Bolshies born "Boris."
C's for the catch of the day. (Fridays...? Flounder.)
D is for Danny O,' Dennis 'n' Doris.
     E is for "Every day I have the blues."
F is for Friday, Rob Crusoe's home dude.
G's for "...a good day for payin' your bills..."
H...? For High Holidays' holiday mood.
     I's for "In just one day Rome wasn't built."
J's for Joe Friday: "...just facts, ma'am, just facts..."
K is for Kalends: Rome's new moon emerges.
L is for laundry day. (Who swiped my slacks...?)
     M's for a 'Menndich,' a 'Maandag,' a 'Monday.'
N's for ennui -- that's to say, noonday devils.
O is for One-A-Day gummies for grownups.
P is for payday, occasioning revels. 
     Q is for 'quaque die,' i.e., 'daily.'
R is for rubric, for red letter, eh...?
S is for "Saturday Night" -- "Live" or "Hot Jazz."
T...? Pearl Buck's Wang Lung's "Today is the day."
     U is for Uday, Saddam's sadist son.
V's for V-E Day, as well as V-J.
W's Wednesday -- for "Sheffield" or Week,"
X...? For today...if today's Xmas Day.
     Y is for yesterday. Yesterday's gone,
as did Bill from his pillar with Hillary tell us.
Z is for Day of the Zombie, when Sean
(of the Dead) and his f(r)iends come to (more or less)... 

                                                                 kill us.

Repost: The No "No Nonsense!" Guy

Who's bit thrice but not shy...?
Who's, though smitten, still spry...?
Who sports mittens -- no tie...?
The No "No nonsense!" Guy.
     Who takes sides at the Y...?
Who confides, "I'm a spy"...?
Who's tried trisecting pi...?
The No "No nonsense!" Guy.
     Who loves Laurie, loathes Fry; 
disses Christian, digs Bligh;
Googles K Ophir (Shai)...?
The No "No nonsense!" Guy.

     Who chugs canteens of chai

with pastramis on rye,

then cries, "Let 'em eat pie!"...?

The No "No nonsense!" Guy.

     Who sings, "B'ruch...Adonai..."

before sundown each Fri...?

(You might give that a try: 

you're no "no nonsense!" guy.)

Repost: The Saddest Words

Of tongue or pen the saddest word:
"It might have been"...? Don't be absurd.
Some say the saddest, without doubt,
are, "Sorry, son; thy time's run out."
     Still sadder some see, writ or spoke:
"Hey! Whassa matta...? Jus' a joke."
Who hears these phrases owns he's fail'd:
"She's split, yer bird. Yer ship...? She's sail'd."
     "Abandons hope, who enters here!" 
The saddest...? Nope! (Though mighty near.)
More sad by far these triste terms be:
"As thou art now, so once were we."
     The Virgin to God's Son doth whine
in John, chap. II: "They have no wine."
Still, THE most sad of all, I fear...?
The barkeep's call: "We're outta beer."

Repost: Crisp Cashew Coating Chokes Cute Chocolate-Cover'd Crocodile

 

Repost: The Stroh's Of Yesteryear (Villon For The Vulgus: A Ballade On Dead Soldiers)

Francois Villon (1431-1463) composed a poem entitled 
"Ballade of the Dead Ladies" wherein occurs the refrain 
"Where are the snows of yester-year?" -- considered by 
some to be the most famous line of translated poetry in 
the English-speaking world. Dead soldiers mentioned in 
the title are empty beer bottles and cans.

Where now is young Stella, once christen'd Artois...?
And where dwells fair Glynnis -- nee Guinness -- the Dear...? 
And where bide the Buds of May...? Pour one pour moi.
O, where are the Stroh's of yester-year...? 

Repost: Incomplete Abecedarial Paean to Plaid (A Through L)

All ador'd my angora, 

nor'd none dare ignora a 

chemise made of Aertex I had.
Then I glimps'd Alan Ladd
on my iPad: Egad!
Was the shirt Al was girt with a plaid...?

Burlap broadcloth's unique,
and who'd not love batik,
nor'd a Battenberg lace be too bad.
But along bounded Brad:
weren't those jodhpurs he had...?
And those braces and belts...? All were plaid!

Cashmere, camel's hair, chintz,
cloth of gold (if mere hints):
cloth which starts with C...? Chiliads! Scads!
Note: the PM of Chad 
(K. P. Deubet's the lad)
rules in compets and boubous -- all plaids!

Damask, double-knits, duck,
with some denim (what luck!)
thusly dress'd, I'd resemble De Sade.
Then I thought of me Dad,
deadbeat dryad gone mad.
(Dad died dancing in dirndls of plaid.)

Each electronic textile,
in plain-, stripe- or check-style,
which to moi ensemble I'd add
called for stringent proscription
of cotton (Egyptian).
Egad! No more plaid...? 'Tis too sad.

For sale: five five-Farad
capacitors. Where had
I found them to wear...? In an ad.
Who'd foment such a fad...?
Flavor Flav, who's a cad...?
Nope! That fellow, by far, prefers plaid.

Give me gingham, then Gore-Tex.
A gauze pinafore nex'.
Then gabardine gowns of your dad's.
He'd the gonads to don 'em --
with quatrefoils on 'em.
Still, I'd be most glad to get plaids. 

Hand me hair shirts in herringbone,
hopsacks (to which I'm prone).
Harris Tweed widow's weeds...? Rad!
(Did I spy, on your helipad,
once ev'ry hebdomad,
CONELRAD op'rants in plaid...?)

I've loved fine Irish linen
and cotton that's Indi'n.
My feelings for these...? Ironclad!
Till a book -- 'twas an Iliad
bought in Islamabad --
introduced Islamic plaid.

Jeremiads (my own)
flow in triads: I moan,
"Jerseys, jutes, Jacquard suits...? Those I've had."
Now jihadists enlist
in Jamdani. I'm pissed:
they join up, jup'd 'n' jodhpur'd, in plaid.

Kanye's kid brother styled --
to look kooky and wild --
all my kaftans 'n' kurtas. Good lad!
But, like most city slickers,
he bypass'd my knickers,
my kilts and my kicks. None are plaid!

Linsey-woolsey...? A trace.
Leather briefs I embrace.
I've more linens than Vlad Lenin had,
who, in lush lingerie
done in lambs-wool lame,
long held sway. (Why's his loincloth not plaid...?)

Repost: What Are The Odds...? A Nominal Anomaly

Though an 'even''s seen in 'seven,' 

oddly, 7 isn't even.

That an 'even''s in 'eleven's odd: 

11, too, ain't even.

An "An 'even''s seen in 'seven,' 

although 7 isn't even"
seems, routinely, a fifteener. 

(Even so, 15's not even.)

An "An 'even''s in 'eleven,' 

though 11 isn't even,"
seems a byzantine fifteener. 

Still, 15 remains uneven.

(Note: these lines through which we plod
though, 'even's notwithstanding, odd,
we see wind down -- for which, thank Gawd! --
and roundly boo'd as oddly flaw'd.)