"Who's bit thrice but not shy...?" The "No 'No-Nonsense'" Guy: A Nonsense Rhyme

Who's bit thrice but not shy?
Who's, though smitten, still spry?
Who sports mittens -- no tie?
The "No 'No-Nonsense'" Guy.

Who resides 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,

and 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!)

"Three Gershwins..." & Other Tripartite Situs Limn'd as Lim'ricks

A Shwin / Shwin / Lose Situation 

Three Gershwins seem show business pros.
There be George, brother Ira and Rose.
George's tunes are the best.
Ira's words pass the test.
Yet all shows of Ms. Rose quickly close.

A Wright / Wright / Wrong Situation  

Three Wrights seem a laudable trio.
There be Orville and Wilbur and Leo.
Orville's printing press...? Nifty.
"Burr"'s bicycles...? Thrifty.
Yet, Dio! Poor Leo lacks brio!

A Grant / Grant / Keep Situation 

Of Grants we observe more than two.
There's Ulysses. There's Gogi. There's Hugh.
Uly's POTUS -- two terms.
Gogi's hairdos are perms.
As to Hugh, I've no clue. Nor have you.

"If each holiday song, gotten jotted down wrong..." Ymas Story or There's No Place Like an Alternate 'Yule'niverse for the Holidays

If each holiday song, gotten jotted down wrong,
reappeared, but sung weird and inchoate,
would've stuff taking place showed a different face?
Would the world have unfurled as we know it?

If (say) Clement Clarke Moore had penned "Fortnights Before..." --
this in lieu of the lyrics we love,
then would issues of race now but rarely take place?
Would each push need to come to a shove?

And if Bach's "Hallelujah" were sung "If I knew ya
were coming I'd bake ya a cake,"
would've Adam's mate Eve from God's garden took leave,
scarffed a pear and then married the Snake?

If a true lover sings. "...five aluminum rings..."
in his air about pear trees and partridges,
would've JFK's 'cade proved a less grim parade?
Would Lee Harvey have run short of cartridges?

If those Magi guys were from the Occident, myrrh,
gold and frankincense might have, instead,
been a Myrtle Beach condo, one Golden Fernando
and Frankenstein's second-best bed. 

Had he* dashed through the snow in a multi-horse No-
va instead of a single-horse sleigh,
would they've figured a way -- that proverbial "they" --
to prefabricate Rome in one day?     
     * James Lord Pierpont, composer of "Jingle Bells."

And had Frosty the Snowman proved less tele-showman
and more ecological hero,
would the globe have stopped warming, stopped tropical storming?
Would rumors of war approach zero?

"'Lady Justice is blind, so adjust her I must...'" SCOTUS: A View from the Left (from What A's Not For)

"Lady Justice is blind, so adjust her I must."
Thus whines Justice Neil Gorsuch, who's not to be trusted.
"She must be confined: I must truss her or bust."
Thus opines Clarence Thomas, who ought to be busted.

"Although she's disgusting, I'm lusting, nonplussed,"
stammers Samu'l Alito. (Such sang froid! Such crust!)
"And as ashes to fascists be, pus be to rust."
Dost John Roberts misquote The Good Book? Yea, John dost.

"When I's citin', I side wit' consuvatives fu'st."
Justice Anthony Kennedy's less than robust.
Now Scalia is dead, of course. (Isn't he just!
(Sonia? Ruth? Steve? Elena? They'll not be discussed.)

"'Great Grandpa: you're old,' the man's great grandson cried..." Pool Noodles: A Nonsensical Nod to Lewis Carroll's "Old Father William"

"Great grandpa: you're old," 
the man's great grandson cried.
"What's your century taught you of life...?
Has it taught, for example, 
what factors make pool noodles
so-o-o inexplicab'lly rife...?"

"You're so young, darling boy," 
his great grandfather sigh'd.
"If the truth be told, too young to know
how shrewd brood poodles serve 
to preserve poodle puppies.
Whence think you brand new poodles flow...?"

"Great grandpa: you're moldy," 
the youngster grew snide,
"and your left ear's so awf'lly impair'd
that you hear my 'pool noodles' 
as 'brood poodles' now.
Zut! Ton ouie, I am fearing, est merde!"

"You're so young, " 
the old gentleman blithely replied.
"I'm just pulling your leg, Mister Silly.
But attend! Let me tell you 
what nude strudels are.
They're those pastries 
which lack fruity jelly."

"Great grandpa: you're bold," 
the youth yet again tried,
"but your brain's turn'd berserk with bad beer.
Naked strudels are not 
what I'm talking about.
It's pool noodles 
we're dealing with here."

"You're so young, little one," 
the old man amplified.
"I've been drawing blue doodles for years.
There are days I use crayons 
and days I choose chalk.
Go tell that to your skeptical peers!"

Great grandpa: I'm sold," 
the young lad clarified.
"What I fear's both your ears 
are no good.
Just forget about doodles! 
I'm talking pool noodles.
Please open your ears as you should."

"You're so young, witless one," 
the old man turn'd aside,
"fusing 'doodles' with 'poodles' with 'strudels'...
not to mention 'caboodles.' 
And what about 'feudals'...?"
(Just look where they've led us: pool noodles!)

"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...?