Parallel Universes or The Tur(n)ing Test (Past)

Der Fuhrer calls von Choltitz, bawls: 
"Mein Herr, is Paris burning…?" 

‘Tis true that Cher's ditch’d Sonny. Where's 
le frère whom Cher’s now spurning…? 

Twee Gus reveres Three Musketeers:
for Dumas pere, he's yearning.

Pea Green Anjou's have turn’d to blues.

Don't stare: each pear is turning! 

How much seems right to mind my mite…?
Francs our au pair is earning. 

'Mongst actors, which named Charles is rich...?
A billionaire be Durning. 

"Ha-har-r-r-!" or Pirates of the Absurdean (11)

Call me Ivor! Aye! I live 'ere
near the Guadalquivir River.
I'm a reaver ("...Iv' smokes reefer,"
whines me wench, tho’ don't believ' 'er).
 
Long John Silver, Jenny Diver,
Herbert Hoover an’ the Beaver
constitute with me a fiver:
each a thief; each a survivor.
 
See that slaver out of Dover…?
She’s the good ship Mike L. Deaver
under Captain Nigel Haver.
We resolve to wave 'er over.
 
"All aboard be down wit' fever,"
screams the Beav. "We'd best to leave 'er."
But it's then we spot the silver.
John palavers: "Gotta have 'er!"
 
"Hand 'er over," shouts the Beaver.
"Shiver timbers! Stand! Deliver!"
"Silver salvers…? I'm a craver,"
joins in Jenny (heaven save 'er!).
Tres trays: treasure they'd best give 'er,
for she'll not not take 'em wiv' her.
 
(To be continued)

Point Me Toward the Booth, Tarkington! (11)

     I've had
zero luck keeping the party afloat...

(still I vote)
     ...since the 

repo man managed to scuttle our boat. 
Still, I vote.
     Now I 

haven't the brass for a bracelet-sleev'd coat...
but I vote.    
     Upon
Donald's hot air how can followers dote...?
Still I vote.  
     About 

Hillary's emails I'm loathe to emote.
Still I vote.   
     And, while 

Donald's been deem'd a despicable POTUS  
and Hillary's framed as a plainly fail'd FLOTUS, 
I still feel the Bern (though I'll not stoop to gloat as
I vote.)  
     Long I’ve
campaigned for candidates bas – rarely haut. 
Still I vote.
     And I 

care not for Carly nor Chris one iota…
yet vote. 

     And al-

though for young Marco I jitter no jota...
I vote. 
     I’ve yip-
pee’d, "I’ve no need to set sail for Kyoto
to vote."
     Need I 

row high or low…? No, nor ask Mikimoto
to vote.
     Still, the 

sourest of notes is when, feeling one’s oats,
     one’s by 

wannabe POTUSes, flooded with quotes
     pledging 

tot’lly by rote. (It’s the Year of the Stoat:
note the offal they float!)
Still, I vote…
    ...from some
U-boat if need be, if that’s not verboten.
My I.D. I’ll tote in my waistcoat, you’ll note. In
I’ll go – X, Y, Z – and start votin.' I’m free…
...and I vote.

Pork...? Pork! (11)

Pork...? Pork! Pork chop.
“Pork”ahontas. Pork pie hat.

Chop-chop. Poach shop...?
“Pork”atello's where it’s at!

Ork's Mork. Po’ boy 

prowls “Poughrk”eepsie. Pokey Pig.

Oklahoma's oaks, okay...? 

(Dessert…? For certain fruit: a fig…?)

Prosopogostichs for Herbert Crowley (Past)

Not unpleasant to know…? Mr. Crowley –
like Euphrosyne, bringer of mirth.
Herbert's vow…? Ne’er to throw in the tow’l. He
to The Wiggle-Much funnies gives birth,
then gets dump’d by the Herald most foully.
An artiste of penn’d heavens on earth,
via deeds of one Duerr, Herbert Crowley
fin’lly demonstrates cultural worth.
 
Prosopogostichs are verses created by poetaster
Ulysses Poe in imitation and celebration of those
lines penned by Edward Lear which begin “How
pleasant to know Mr. Lear…” Initially intended
to provide mini-portraits in verse of authors who
achieved fame as creators of nonsense poetry,
there now exist scores of prosopogostichs
memorializing an ever-increasing range of
individuals famous or infamous for success
in a variety of fields.

Q&A + Q&NoA (11)

Aper-

çu&a...? 

Bar-B-

Q&A! 

Curli-

cue&A...? 

Oh, Pea-

Q-&A! 

Whither…?s. Who…?s. What…?s. 

When…?s. Why…?s. Where…?s. 

Zithers. Gnus. Mutts. 

Hens. Flys. Bears.
Secur'd investments. 

Stocks 'n' shares.
Full houses. Royal 

flushes. Pairs.

Rain of Tariffs (11)

We trek through tariffying times.
Such times be climes for sheriffs.
Sometimes, such times drum up a Drumpf,
one handy with his tariffs,
a Drumpf who sees economies
through isolation’s prism.
who feels it’s fine to fall in line
with home-grown tariffism.
But don’t forget: a helping hand
is not an iron fist.
One voter’s chosen one is but 

another’s tariffist.

A(rray)BC (11)

Alejandro and Alvino Rey – 
are they not Reys…?
Aldo Ray and Alan Mobray:
ain't they also Rays…?
 
Braided B'yonce's brayin’
backs bourées. (Bourées ain’t ‘ray’s.)
Blacken’d blues are true-blue hues.
They’re grey’d blade Brother Ray’s.
 
Charo's charr’d: charcoal-corroded.
Robert Cray's Crayola-coated.
Cool-J's choler’s color-coded,
spray’d by cathode rays.
 
Desdemona’s dreamin,’ doe-eyed.
Dewy-…? Sho. (Though don't say "sloe-eyed.")
Slingin’ (slangin’) ‘dhese ‘n’ dhose.’
A dozin’ Désirée.
 
Earl entrés with silver’d tray.
(Served…? Hot cross buns, cold Earl Grey.)
Fauré's five fingers flail;
four fin'lly fail, forthwith, to play. 
 
Sing, singers! Sing solfege, we pray:
"...la-la-ti-la -- sol-sol-la-sol –
fa-fa-sol-fa – mi-mi-fa-mi –
re-re-mi-re…mi-re…"
 
Gram's gamma rays, as they decay,
turn Gram's beret a charcoal grey. 
Herr Hitler's home. Herr’s here to stay.
(Herr's hit the hay…? Hoo-ray!)
 
In love I am, with Ina Ray.*
In re, I say: "Into the fray!"
Join Johnny Ray and Jules Maigret
in jamboree (not jamboraye)!

     * Ms. Hutton was born 

Odessa Cowan. Nonetheless…

 
Kol Nidrei calls for gnosh outré: 
McKippers!* (Kroc's the fast-fare Ray.)
Let eel (lamprey), with seal -- (say) grey…? – 
beside us kneel. Now: Let us pray!

 
     * Ideal for Yom Kippur 

(aka Yum Kipper...?)
 
 Rays…? Manta ray, Man Ray's moray,
Marin Marais and Martha Raye,
Nanette Fabray and Nadia Gray,
and Rayner (Ray)* and Marvel Ray.**

     * Chicago kids' TV staple.   
     ** Ina Ray's mother -- cf above.
 
Omar works or prays: no play. 
His life’s "orar' et labore."
(Oh, no: he's "Om-m-m-m-m"'d his day away.)
"Phil Harmony is Paul Paray," 
prates Paul's 'paraymate' M. Dupre.*

     * Organist and childhood pal 

of Paray's.
 
“Quaere verum” -- seek what's vrai!
(It's either that or quit the fray!) 
Rachel Ray ain’t Robert Cray. 
(Is Rainer Rilke Cray…? No way!)
 
Sugar Ray, with Spalding Gray,
San-Luis-Rey-way stray’d one day.
'Tis too tres tres, that tea-tray trey:
try trading two. (Then, traipse away.)
 
UV (ultravi'let) rays
from Uranus upset my days.
Van Gogh voudrait to vault -- oy, vay! –
from Vezelay to Vau. (C'est vrai!)
 
No! Wardell Gray is not Faye Wray: 
her wigwam’s of a warmer grey.
 
X-ray's Charles G. Barcla*…? Famed
for forays in re: rays!
Whereas Chuck Barkley, reigning as Sir Charles…?
Famed for___?___ (Has been for days!)

     * Brit C. G. Barcla won the '17 Nobel 

in Physics for work in x-ray spectroscopy.
 
You've not yet visited Ypres…?
You're young yet. Pray: you'll yield one day.
 
Z. Ray Wakeman (hair gone grey) 
pulls stunts in films...or so they* say.

     * 'They,' in this case, being the fine folks –
several named Ray, it's safe to say -- who amass
and post content for Google’s search engine.

Requiem for a Featherweight (Past)

     (Remember the drinking bird science toy? 

You may have called yours the insatiable birdie 

or the dunking bird or even (incorrectly) the 

dinky bird perpetual motion machine. Whatever 

you called yours, I assure you it was nothing 

like mine.) 

 
Say “slainte!” to me Drinkin’ Bird.
(His cocktail…? Shaken, never stirr’d.)
Propose a toast! Me clinkin’ bird
will belt his next, throw down a third,
a fourth, a…”’Nuf! Tha’s sinkin,’ Bird.
Tha face be flush’d. Tha speech be slurr’d.”
(Me Drinkin’ Birds’s one stinkin’ bird.)
 
“Tha’ll lose thy eyesight, Drinkin’ Bird,
if tha’s glaucoma goes uncur’d.”
(At home we calls ‘im “Winkin’ Bird”;
four floaters leave his pupils blurr’d.
But dons he specs…? Not Blinkin’ Bird.
His fear…? Folks label him a nerd.
(Me Drinkin’ Bird’s no thinkin’ bird.)
 
Play’d Steinways, did me Drinkin’ bird.
Like Liberace, Bird play’d furr’d
(all ermin’d up: no Minkin’ bird)
and swann’d about like hell, I’ve heard.
He oft were bill’d “Ye Plinkin’ Bird.”
(A memoir’s due. ‘Tis too absurd:
this turd’s become an inkin’ bird.)
 
“But ars runs longa, Drinkin’ bird.
Tha’s denoument’s too long deferr’d.
No longer be tha ‘Brink’in’ Bird.
Tha’s due to be in hearse chauffeur’d.
In zinc-lined urn shall Zincin’ Bird,
ex-drinkin’ buddy, be interr’d.
(En fin, me friend’s a Finkin’ Bird.)

Textual Harassment (Frags) (11)

In thrilling days of yester-,
there dwelt due west of Leicester,
beyond its housing cluster,
a crone – an empty nester --
who came to calls for "Hester!"
 
This maid (no Lady Astor)
then wed the village barr’ster --
a mouthpiece name of Buster
(young Buster’d but to ask her) --
and bore him sons call’d Fester,
MacAllister and Lester.
 
Young Fester, “Cal” and Lester,
moreover, had a sister
whom Hester christen’d Brewster –
(a name-your-child disaster
no Christian church would foster).
Still, thus she introduced her
at matins ev’ry Easter... 

     *   *   *  *   *
 
...but marriage lost its luster.
Her Buster proved a shyster.
He promptly play’d the jester
who pined for pastures vaster,
lands south-southwest of Ulster.
 
Thus, mistress lost her mister:
this blister roundly cursed her,
and, donning toque and duster,
the legal beagle diss’d her…
 
     *   *   *   *   *
 
…who drove a roller coaster
misnamed The Upper Cruster.
One day he grabb’d a sister.
(Of nuns he was a quester.)
He’d cased ‘er. Then he’d cuss’d ‘er,
though of cursing he’d accus’d her.
 
Into a car he cast ‘er
(though not before he’d kiss’d ‘er).
She, fearing he'd molest ‘er,
purloin'd from him the keys ter
the rusty Upper Cruster…
 
     *   *   *   *   *   
 
…then kick’d him in the keister...
 
...The End...?