"Who mal-mouths men..." Regalia: A Nonsense Alphabet in Rhyme (from What A's Not for)

Who mal-mouths men for mismatched clothes 
must know what who's not no one knows:
all suits (such duds these dudes drag on!)
aren't suitable for ev'ry john.

Aren't armbands apt for activists?

(Weren't you, once, one of those?)

Aren't boas built for blondes ("Les Gilt")

in pumps and fishnet hose?

Aren't Cardigans collegi'ns costumes -- 

seen on senior fellows

smoking briars in their libraries

("...the beechwood and the bellows...")?

Aren't dickeys, donned by dapper dons,

to deans and docents sold?

Aren't epaulettes and earmuffs worn

by ensigns catching cold?

Fedoras aren't for females.

They're for fellas -- Indianas,

Michael Landrys, Lester Youngs...

(For their fedoras they're bananas!)

Aren't galluses the garb of grandpas

('zaydes' if they're Jews)?

Aren't H'wai'an shirts "haut cout" 

for Honolulu'ns on a cruise?

Aren't ice bags for inebriates,

to keep hung hotheads cool?

Aren't jodhpurs for the jet set

at the Spanish Riding school?

Aren't kilts the kit of Scottish knights --

Kincaid clan kin included?

Legwarmers warm lads' legs,

lest limbs catch chills because denuded.

Don't mousquetaires make mitts

for musketeers -- not mice, not moose?

Aren't neckties for the natt'lly dressed --

knots knotted tight, not loose?

Orchids, pince-nez, quivers, muffs:

for whom might those togs be?

For fleurphiles, Poirots, Quinns, Pierrots

and Royals...suitably.

Are spats not for sophisticates?

I know so few. (You do?)

Are teddies not for Ts and As?

(Transvestites tout 'em, too.)

Aren't underpants default for uncles

unemployed (sans jobs)?

Are vests not viscounts' vestments --

and for vestiges of slobs?

Aren't Wellingtons (originally

worn by Duke of same)

now worn by weekend gardeners?

(Is Monty Don to blame?)

Xylóxabats (they're wooden shoes): 

are they not for the Dutch?

Are yarmulkas not for yeshiva boys'

"nice Yiddish touch"?

Aren't zippered and well-padded

body stockings for Zen Buddhists

who, while striving for dokugo,

also relish being nudists?

So: what is Man without his clothes?

I know: one who's not no one knows

that clothes aren't always in demand --

unless they're a designer brand.

"Since when are Gs (gasp!) energies...?" Physics Distichs: A Nonsense in Rhyme

Since when are Gs (gasp!) energies?
Does antimatta matta?

Which pitch-dark night might speed of light
Al's* light-speed limit shatta?

Whose razzmatazz frames physics, as
our cosmos waxes fatta?

Why'd physicists pick psychic twists
to machinate their data?
     * Relativity's Albert Einstein, of course.

"My Russian dramatic fave..." The "I'm Not Bald!" Eagle: Portrait of a Con Artist

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! The 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. 

"There's this dick down the Dales..." About Andy: a Limerick (from AmalgaMates_

(Dalziel, a not uncommon Scottish surname, is pronounced, more or less, Dee-ELL. 'Dick' is slang for detective, and, while Andy is a detective superintendent, he's also a vulgar prick as well. 'The Dales' refers to the Yorkshire Dales, Andy's patch. The author of the Dalziel and Pascoe novels is Reginald Hill (in standard orthography). 'Tha' is thou or you in Scots dialect.)

There's this dick down the Dales dubbed Dalziel.

He puts partner Pete Pascoe through helziel.

In Hilziel's novels' accounts

his name's hard to pronounce,

and, I'll telziel tha as welziel, hard to spelziel.

"A is for Arbor Day..." A Most Unusual 'Day': An Alphabet

A is for Arbor Day and "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 and Doris.

E is for "Every day I have the blues."
F is for Friday, who's 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.

"North Korea? Seedy 'hood..." Chorea Brief

North Korea? Seedy 'hood.
Chicory, a weed? "'Tees good."
South Korea? Tech'xpertise.
Chick Corea? Pecks your keys.
Sydenham's Chorea? Tough!
Like Huntington's, it's savage stuff.

"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!)