The Ocelot: An Anagranimal in Five Quats and a Coda

To Cole…? Mr. Porter, this verse is pour vous.

Let Coo…? You are hereby allow’d to bill, too.

El Toco…? A matador famed for his grit.

C’e’t Loo…? “’Tis a bog” – one half Frog, one half Brit.

 

T. E. Cool…? One more Lawrence clone -- this one’s a rapper…

Et Loco…? …and crazy, too – albeit dapper.

Oleo Ct…? The amount of faux butter.

Ol’ Cote…? Ancient ke-keep for bi-birds. (I stutter.)

 

Oct. Leo…? The Lion in Fall, not in Summer.*

“Celt…? Oo-…”…? This stuff’s Gaelic, a wa-a-ay diff’rent drummer.

Toe Loc…? Your pinkie’s location (in brief).

'Lo et Co…? J.Lo’s new corporation’s motif.

     * Leo's dates are 7/23 to 8/22, smack dab in the middle of 

Summer. An October Leo occurs sometime in the Fall. (Nor, of 

course, is he The Lion in Winter.)

 

Col. Eto...? The Japanese Charge D'affaire.

Co-'otel...? A twin inn nextdoor. Aren't they a pair...? 

Le Coot...? Some old bird boasting feathers...or not.

To Cleo...? Hey, Nile Queen! Look what all I've wrought!

CEO Lot…? Bible’s first chief exec.

O’Tolce…? Irish fam’ly -- not Chechen, not Czech.  

Cot Olé…? Cheer for bullfighter, bray’d from your bed.

Ocelot…? Careful! That cat’s not been fed.

     Coda 

This postscript I add as a brief afterthought:

My bolt, anagram-wise, on 'ocelot''s shot! 

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’…