"Of tongue or pen the saddest word..." 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 failed:
"She's split, yer bird. Yer ship? She's sailed."
"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."

"Where now is young Stella..." The Stroh's of Yesteryear; or, Villon for the Vulgus: A Ballade on Dead Soldiers

Where now is young Stella who's christened Artois...?
And where dwells fair Glynnis nee Guinness the Dear...?
And where bide the Buds of May...? One now I'd draw.
O, where be the Stroh's of yester-year...? 

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

"All ador'd my angora..." Incomplete Abecedarial Paean to Plaid (A through L)

All ador'd my angora,
nor'd none dare ignore 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 their 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 next.
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 and jodhpur'd, in plaid.

Kanye's kid brother styled --
to look kooky and wild --
all my kaftans and kurtas. Good lad!
But, like most city slickers,
he bypassed 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?)

"Why's there something, then, rather than nothing...?" Suite (of) Nothings: An ABC About Aught

Why's there something, then, rather than nothing?
Are there answers heard, sounded by priests,
by philosophers or by the science guys?
Is it time timely inquiry ceased?

Hold your horse! Take a gander at Google!
Type in "N...O...T...H...I...N...G"!
Then add, one at a time, ev'ry alphabet letter,
It's nothing but nothings you'll see.

There's "nothing At (all)." There's "nothing But (net)."
There's "nothing Compares (2 U)" -- lest you forget.
"Nothing Doing," (warns Duke, "till you hear it from me").
There's Metallica's "nothing Else (matters)" -- in E. 

"Nothing Fancy" -- that's free. "Nothing Gold (stays)" -- that's Frost.
"Nothing's Holding (me back)" -- that's a ringtone, as well.
"It's (a show about) nothing," insists George Costanza.
There's "Nothing (Janne Teller's tome)": how'd that book sell?

There's "nothing Kumpares" -- once again, that's Sinead.
There's "nothing Lasts (longer than...)" -- add your own pun.
Whazzup? "Nothing Much." "Nothing Matters (as such)."
And there's "nothing New (under the sun)."

There's "(she's got) nothing On (but the radio)."
There's the film "Nothing Personal," too.
Ebert notes, "(There is) nothing Quite (like it)." Thumbs up!
"Nothing runs (like a Deere)," either...nu?

"Nothing Suits (like a suit)" sings young Neil Patrick Harris.
"(We've) nothing To (fear)," Franklin feigns.
And can mere verse reveal whether "nothing's Unreal"?
"Nothing Ventured"? Then, what be the gains?

There's "(comes easily) nothing Worth (having)."
There's "(the) nothing (for) Xmas (you're getting)."
There's "(the) nothing You (tell but the truth)" in a courtroom.
There's "Nothing: Zac (Brown's band)," I'm betting.

Nothings all. But exist they instead of the somethings?
And who shall put that to a test?
And yet, why is there something, not nothing?
Is that something we all should have guessed?

"Though an 'even''s seen in 'seven'..." What Are the Odds? An Anomoly of Numbers

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 ain't 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 God! --
and roundly boo'd as oddly flawed.)

"I attack all things new. I'm but barely alive..." Autoantipathetic ABC; or, O Loathsome Me (from AmalgaMates)

I attack all things new. I'm but barely alive.
No, I haven't a clue. I'm deficient in drive.
All my energy's spent and my faith is a sham.
Did I gamble the rent...? Yes. (I hate who I am.)
I'm deep into the booze. When I'm jealous, I pout.
I garrotted my muse once my luck had run out.
I am manic yet dim. I persistently bore.
I'm wa-a-ay out on a limb. My libido is poor.
I'm too quick to accuse. In your wounds I'll rub salt.
I consistently lose. Want the truth...? It's my fault.
I am up to no good. I am vain to the bone.
I will not (though I should). I am xenophobe-prone.
Though I yearn to be hip I wind up acting twee:
I'm a zero, a zip. But, what d'you think of me...?

"Curly, Moe, Larry, Shemp..." How They Died; or, Necrologue: Shuffling Off This Mortal Coil

Curly, Moe, Larry, Shemp: all devolv'd to room temp.
"First Cartoonist" Thom Nast wound up breathing his last.
Colin's Granddaddy Firth has departed this earth.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?

Codicologist Morse rides -- behold! -- a pale horse.
Culture icon Joan Quarm, late last year, bought the farm.
Mogul Friedrich ("Fritz") Krupp watch'd his number come up.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?

Mr. John Albert Macy's now pushing up daisies.
One Solomon Phipps fin'lly cash'd in his chips.
Justice Morrison Waite simply slipp'd off the plate.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....? 

All (or most) of the Bysshes now sleep with the fishes.
St. Christopher Wade...? Made to drink the Kool Aid.
Herr Hermanus van't Hoff softly exited off.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?

Rudi (jazz critic) Blesh went the way of all flesh.
Ms. Elizabeth Baker en fin met her Maker.
Li'l Abner's Al Capp took a final dirt nap.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?

Couple Carl and Blanch Jost gravely gave up the ghost.
Poet Julia Ward Howe waved, then took her last bow.
Joseph Smith and his wives...? All of them lost their lives.
when will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....? 

Right-winger John Birch veer'd...then fell off his perch.
Charles Caldwell McCabe...? In the bosom of Abe.
Messrs E. and K. Wynn (pop 'n' son) packed it in.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?

Rufus, Tom and John Choates all donn'd pine overcoats.
Kicked the bucket did Boggs: Ephraim popp'd his clogs.
Even "Prosp" Merimee, in the end, pass'd away.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?

"Once, the world was just fire or earth, water or air..." Science Schmyence! E Equals M C Squared: A Disquisition on an Equation

Once, the world was just fire or earth,
water or air.
That's when God was head honcho.
Dissenters? Grilled rare!
Then a diff'rent reality
Albert E. bared:
it seems e equaled m
times the speed of light squared.

Cast your mind back to Al,
him of mad-as-March hair.
To eschew Albert's view of the u...?
Who dared dare...?
Yet some did disagree.
I, for one, bellowed, "Merde!
Are you shittin' me...?
Energy's m times c squared...?" 

"What else? Matter's dark...?
Holes black? Quarks everywhere...?
Leapin' leptons...? Bad bosons...?
Far fruitier fare...?
My Old Testament cosmos
can not be repaired --
not when energy's mass
times the speed of light squared.

"Are there cosmoi in parallel...?
Damned if I care!
Does my watch slow the faster I go...?
C'est la guerre!
I'd prefer Al'd not shared.
I'd have rather been spared
each new round which compounds
E be (zounds!) mc²."

"Newt...neuter...nudist..." Posi-, Compara-, Superla-: A Digression on Degrees (Illustration)

Illustration in Pentel on photocopy paper by N. Smithe-Magee

"Alice, an Alice-blue alga..." Female Critters of Color Who Devour Their Mates

Libby, a lavender Labrador,
lusts for Oscar, an ochre-hued ocelot.
Lib admits to her crush. 
But Lib's, likewise, a lush,
so Lib lavishes love on the sauce a lot.

Callie, a Kelly-green kitten,
swoons for Salman, a salmon-hued salmon.
Feline Callie finds fish
such as Salman 'delish.'
"He's my guy, do or die, feast or famine."

Emma, an emerald emu,
esteems Hector, electric-blue gnu.
Em's love's so extreme 
she decks Hec with whipp'd cream
and a cherry. (Indeed: wouldn't you...?)

Vida, a violet viper,
feels for Francis, a forest-green frog.
Vida thought Francis looked 
just like frogs legs uncooked.   
Frank thought Vida looked just like a log.

Alma, an Alice-blue alga,
fancies Gracchus and Bacchus, black yaks.
To the query, "Why two...?" 
Alice parries, "So'd you:
each yak's knacks impact t'other yak's lacks."

Ruby, a ruby-red booby,

bride of Barry, a Barium bee.

keeps, as well, one vermilion, 
one blue crocodilian,

for four feast as frug'lly as three.

Liz, an alizarin lizard,

craves José, a beige budgerigar.

Although wedded to Ted, 
a woad Rhode Island Red,

she prefers her beige budgie (so far).

Kiki, a khaki okapi,

loves a buffalo -- buff-tinted Biff.

But an orange and wan-
colored orangutan

sports a quaff she finds spiffy. Meet Cliff!

Sue, a cerulean sea lion,

mad for Adam, a madder-hued adder,

digs, addition'lly, Cab, 
a dun Dungeness crab.

Sue's, indeed, due to feed on the latter.

"Wallace ("Wally") Amos: his cookies made him famous..." Thought on the Anniversary of Freeman Gosden's Death (December 10th)

Wallace ("Wally") Amos:
his cookies made him famous.
I ate a few. I grew...and grew.
You too...? And who could blame us...?

F. Gosden, black'd-up Amos:
his racist faces shame us.
To spot such blot one's not, mein Gott,
required to hire a shamus.

How rare, this pair of Amoi!
One wins. His twin's quite lame. Oy!
Still, much the same,
it's fair to claim,
as neither'd brook the name 'boy.'