Hommage a Barry (or Reggie or...)

There's the white call'd alabaster. There's the white of bleached bones.
There's the white of shirts with collars donn'd by fuddy-duddy Jones.
There's the white on cliffs at Dover. There's the whites of plovers' eggs.
There's the white of coward's feathers as that cad forgiveness begs.
There's the predatory great white. (Aren't white herons great as well...?)
There are white piano iv'ries. Jack White knows no parallel.
Seen on airplane flights: white knuckles. Heard in proxy fights: white lies.
And on Broadway, cows named Milky White. (In Sondheim's play, one dies.*)     * In "Into the Woods"
I have childhood friends who're non-white. Off-off-white's a fashion shade.
Pearl White's both a color and an actress. (One was bound to fade.)
There's the White Queen -- friend to Alice. White rice...? On the whole, it's white.
Ms. Snow White (who lived with seven dwarves). White trash enhances blight.
There's the ultra white of salesmen's smiles. Vanilla white's for cones,
while white wine is not. (How far we've got from cliffs and bleachéd bones!)
Cafe singers croon "White Xmas." Hey!  Both you and I are white.
Sure, but Barry White (I'm sure I'm right) is black -- and outta sight!

Whose Words Are These? (Nonsense Robert Frost)

Frost writes from a snowy stand of trees in New Hampshire:
"Whose woods these are I think I know..."

Fauxrost writes from a brewpub in Belgium:
"Whose worts? These are, I think, Hainault's."

Fauxrost writes from Jello Corporation's test kitchens:
"Whose pudds, these? Dare I lick the bowl?"

Fauxrost writes from a slave market near the Roman Forum:
"Who would Caesar eye? D'ya think I know?"

Fauxrost writes from Pulaski, Tennessee (home of the early KKK):
''Whose hoods these are I think guys know."

Fauxrost writes from Pooh Corner at the Disney Store:
"Roo's moods bee-zarre my shrink I'd show."

Fauxrost writes from Dunsinane near the Great Birnim Wood:
"Whose 'woodsies' are a-writhing now?"

Fauxrost writes from St. Elizabeth's Psychiatric Hospital, Washington, DC:
"This warden! He's let Hinkley go."

Fauxrost writes from a flooded Center of Wooden Art in Philadelphia:
"Hugh's wood thesauri? Sinking now..."

Fauxrost writes from a music store in Aleppo, Syria:
"Whose ouds are these? I'd plink. (You'd blow?)"

Fauxrost writes from the Freud Clinic in Vienna, Austria:
"Whose moods, these? Arch 'n' kinky, no?" 

Fauxrost writes from the Benning Terrace public housing project:
"Whose 'hoods be dese? Dey stink, mah bro..." 
    
Fauxrost writes from the Winter Palace where comrade Andreiovitch stands guard:
"Who wounds de Tsar? 'Drei'd blink befo'..."

Frauxost writes from Golgotha ouside Jerusalem:
"Whose roods are these? They're zinc, yet glow..."

Fauxrost writes from Bergdorf-Goodman's fur locker in New York:
"Whose snoods are these, like mink (but faux)...?"

Fauxrost writes from Wakatipu Beekeeping Station in New Zealand:
"Who woos our bees? I'd sink that low."

Fauxrost writes from Longwood Gardens, Pennsylvania:
"Who weeds these. All need drinks of eau."

Fauxrost writes from Filene's Basement:
"Whose goods are these? The pink must go!"

Fauxrost writes from Mount Vernon, Virginia:
"Whose wooden teeth? A. Lincoln's? No!"

Fauxrost writes from the Caucasus in Central Asia:
"Whose woads are these? Like: (wink) nice glow...!"

Fauxrost writes from Sarge's basement studio in Silver Spring, MD:
"Whose words are these? They stink, ya know?" 

Fauxrost writes from the corporate headquarters of Hyram's Zamboni Service:
"Who would refreeze our ice rink? Yo!"

Finally, Fauxrost (arriving full circle?) writes from the pro shop at Augusta National Golf Club:
"Whose woods these are I think I know..." 

"If and only if I've channeled Milt Caniff..." Iff: Nonsense Verse Elaborates Biconditional Connectives

If and only if
I've channel'd Milt Caniff
might my cartoons make any diff' --
though if and only if.
And if and only if
Miff's gif's* prove plu-prolif'
might trombone Joneses get a lif' --
though if and only if. 
     * Miff Mole was one of the greatest 
jazz trombonists ever.

If and only if
some gonif cops his riff
might John Coltrane* indulge in tiff --
though if and only if.
And if and only if
you'd scribble 'hippogriffe'
you'll surely need a brand-new glyph --
though if and only if.
     *John Coltrane was one of the greatest 
tenor sax players ever.

If and only if
I hang with Jimmy Cliff*
I'm loath to take a single whiff --
though if and only if.
And if and only if
your skiff sinks, cast adrif,'
I'll pray your painful passing's swif,' --
though if and only if.
      * Jimmy Cliff was one of the greatest 
Jamaican reggae musicians ever.

If and only if
they ask, "Who here's called 'Biff'...?"
I'll promptly pout and plead the fif,' --
though if and only if.
And if and only if
'toon Tintin* gels with Jif
will said reporter's quiff grow stiff --
though if and only if.
     * Herge's Tintin, officially a reporter, 
was one of the greatest sleuths ever.

The Family That Preys Together Betrays Together (A Drumpf Nonsense Rhyme)

So: here's a thought to banish sleep: 
What if all Drumpfs -- Drumpf gals, Drumpf guys -- 
turn out to be, in fact, black sheep...? 
Hey! What if all the Drumpfs are spies...?

What gives if Junior proves a spook...? 
What's up if Clinton dirt he buys...?
And would that news break make you puke...? 
Say! What if all the Drumpfs are spies...?

What's next if Eric's under covers, 
up to his -- you know -- in lies...?
And dare he double cross his bruvvers...? 
What if all the Drumpfs are spies...?

Is young Ivanka Daddy's spotter...? 
("He's my Dad," Ivanka cries.)
And does the daughter ape the fahdder...? 
What if all the Drumpfs are spies...?

Is Tiffany with MI6...?
In wet ops does she specialize...?
Is she the Aldrich Ames of chicks...? 
Wow! What if all the Drumpfs are spies...?

Melania's a Slovene name. 
Is she an agent in disguise,
encouraging the New Great Game...? 
Yow! What if all the Drumpfs are spies...?

Has Barron learned to launder cash...? 
Has he dark statecraft skills he plies 
in case he needs to Moscow dash...? 
Dang! What if all the Drumpfs are spies...?

Is Donald in cahoots with Putin 
plus whole mobs of other guys...?
And why's America Don lootin'...? 
I think all the Drumpfs are spies!

Spoiler Alerts (A Nonsense Rhyme)

[Ulysses]

Stumblin' through Dublin for twenty-four hours 
through whorehouses, pubs, even one or two towers… 
[Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert! 
Bloom is a cuckold; wife Molly’s a flirt].

[Citizen Kane]
His spring is spectacular. So is his fall, 
as a man learns, en fin, how he can’t have it all…
[Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert! 
“Rosebud”s his sled and his ultimate blurt.]

[The Divine Comedy]
A middle-aged Dante runs ranting through Hell, 
someplace okay to visit but no place to dwell…”
[Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert! 
Though shaken, he’s taken to Heaven unhurt.]

[The Iliad]
The war’s been unending: a bloodbath, by crikey! 
What’s needed’s an armistice nurtured by Nike…
[Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert! 
The horse houses soldiers: just peek ‘neath its skirt.]

[The Wizard of Oz]
Dorothy departs former area code 
and, with friends, her way wends down a yellow brick road…
[Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert! 
The Wiz proves an octogenarian squirt.] 

[The Book of Genesis]
Man shall be made on the last day but one: 
he'll be Nature's epitome! By Jove! Well done!
[Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert! 
The fool will be fashioned from handfuls of dirt.]

[The Book of Job]
God puts his guy to the ultimate test: 
“So: dost thou love Me or thy sorry ass best?”
[Spoiler alert! Spoiler alert! 
Job loses decidedly more than his shirt.]

Self Refs (Noms de Nonsense)

               The self-referring...


...Old Testament theologian: Isaiah Lot of Babel 



...Asian-born black-ink artist law-suit defendant: So Su Me E   



...octogenarian pop culture one-hit wonder: Flash N. DePann   



...Civil War reenactment Rhett Butler impersonator: Frank Lee Meideere    



...Brando-impersonating mafia enforcer: Arthur E. Cantry-Fewse 



...New York waterfront longshoreman: Ike Hood-O'Haddklasse  



...Greta Garbo fan-club recording secretary: Ivan "Toobie" Hull-Owen 



...religious zealot: Theo Lodge-Hickle  



...French national "M Congeniality" contest runner-up: Merce E. Beaucoup  



...general all-around sonofabitch: Upton O'Goode  



...amateur psycho-ecologist: Itzak ("Ray") Zeevoilt  



...novelty floorlamp manufacturer's rep: Major O. Ward  



...unemployed eighteen-wheeler operator: Asa Lee ("Pat") deWiel



…sub-Saharan real-eatate developer: Barron Wasteland 

The Rules of the Games (A Nonsense ABC)

To win at Acey-Deucey, 
just hang loose! Play loosey-goosey!
Such state’s achiev'd, it’s now believ'd, 
binge-viewing “I Love Lucy.”

Who’d play great games of Bocce 
first must migrate to Karachi,
there to register as one “Monsieur 
Wladziu Liberace.”

To dominate in Chess 
(chess is a challenge, I confess),
requires, first off, your rivals doff 
unpleasant Chechen peasant dress.

Who’d call the shots at Draughts 
should swipe some decommission'd rafts –
or purchase some from my old chum 
who works as counterman at Schraft’s.

A Euchre win’s your goal...? 
Abandon random rigmarole.
Begin by sitting, briskly knitting, 
‘neath a Tlingit totem pole.

Your kids you’d beat at Fish...? 
You must three times repeat this wish:
“That each one plays like Helen Hayes, a
nd not like Dot or Lill’an Gish.”

They're chary to begin 
even a friendly game of Gin.
And who can blame 'em, for the game im-
pales: they take it on the chin.

To “first” in Hare and Hounds 
takes more than six or seven rounds.
If you’re the hare, exhibit flair: 
railroad your rivals out of bounds!

Hear “I Spy…something yellow”...? 
All’ll be cool if you’ll but bellow:
“What’s that in your hand...? A Krugerrand...? 
Ah, so: it’s Limoncello!”

No proper Janggi tourney 
may be won without a journey.
You are not Korean...? I’m foreseein’ 
hirein’ an attorney.

Who loves Kings in the Corner 
must (unless he’s born a fore’gner)
learn the state of play while sitting (say) 
with Muffet or young Horner.

You’ll love relearning Ludo. 
First, though, take a class in judo.
Then (though it’s not nice) nick both the dice -- 
lest mucho ‘scudo you’d owe.

Were mastering Mahjong 
to sound its sultry siren song,
grab sev’ral tiles – indeed, grab piles and piles! 
(Would I direct you wrong...?) 

Who’d shine at Nine Men’s Morris, 
while avoiding suff’ring tsoris.
merely needs to own: “I’m not alone.” 
Relax, friend! Join the chorus!

To medal in Othello 
calls for top-notch personnel. Oh,
yeah! And ev’ryone, when all is done, 
says you’re one med’lin’ fellow.

To mold Parcheesi mavens, 
certain states establish havens.
Just check into one! Before you’re done 
you’ll quench Parcheesi cravin’s.

You’d take the cup at Quoits, 
which first-place trophy was Detroit’s...?
You’ll first replace the trophy case, 
which case was formerly Jon Voigt’s.

One’s best approach to Risk...? 
Keep all your operations brisk!
Each piece apace you must deploy – 
and then destroy the royal fisc!

The winning round in Scrabble 
will attract no hacks or rabble.
And the dudes who win all go “all in.” 
It’s only duds who dabble.

You’d mess about with Twister...? 
You had better watch it, mister!
For your threadbare bott be not the spot 
to cultivate a blister.

Your Uncle Wigg’ly player 
(nor be none known to me feyer)
wanders in a rut and’s nutty – but…
I’ll neither “Yea!” nor “Nay!” her.

Who likes Paletti, Villa  
(or vice versa) often will a-
pprove some other games with stranger names – 
‘Charibdis,” say…or ‘Scylla.’

Who’d set his sights on War...? 
None but a nincompoop, Senor,
would grab a gun. He’ll find no fun 
is had upon a foreign shore.

Who wins her “ins” in Xeko 
sleeps on sheets of Marimekko.
Plus, she also owns five valve trombones 
and keeps a gekko gecko.

You wish to win at Yahtzee...? 
First, avoid the paparazzi:
Most are hotsy-totsy, all ex-Nazi! 
Join your local ROT-C!

Zoom Schwartz Profigliano. 
Is this game for real…or guano...?
It’s for real (no schmooze), oft play'd with booze. 
(Do not play man’-a-mano.)

Royals Fill Phil's Royal Phil: a Nonsense Rhyme (from What A's Not For)

Phil's flautists -- four flutes -- include pairs of galoots,
noble guys in from British Guyana.
Phil's sections of oboes consist of ex-hobos --
ones knighted by Princess Diana.

Phil's strings -- viols and 'cellos? Bow'd silly by fellows
whose grandsires were barons and earls.
Phil's bass clarinet's a blasé baronet.
There's scant room in Phil's woodwinds for churls.

Phil fields tympani -- three! -- each a Spanish Grandee.
Are they gifted? Senoras sigh, "Si!"
Phil's contrabassoon? She's a mounted dragoon
who once duel'd with Don Dirk of Dowdee.

For performance on snare, Phil books charges d'affaire
missing limbs lost in Greek civil wars.
Phil's third tambourine was a Kurdistan Queen.
(Matinees, Pearl performs on all fours.)

In on Spanish guitar sits a kin of the Tsar:
Yuri high-tail'd it, pre-Revolution.
Phil's baritone uke is a former archduke.
(Morrie's mom's Dutch; his pa's an Aleutian.)

Phil fans consorts of saxes around an arch'd axis.
Sopranos? Counts! Tenors? Contessas!
And on German celeste: me! (Along with the rest,
I embody Phil's motto: "More Less Is.")

Tillerson Tells Moron Jokes (More Drumpf Nonsense)

Why does the moron prove a dreadful head of state?
Because when just a tot the fellow's not allowed a mate.

Why does the moron daily briefings fail to study?
Because he's not a clever lad, nor's never had a buddy.

Why does the moron white supremacy defend?
Because when but a child he's reconciled to have no friend.

Why did the moron a misogynist become?
Because when he was young he never got to know his Mum.

Why does the moron fail to discipline his ego?
Because alone he's stayed; he's never played with an amigo.

Why does the moron bully, bluster, boast and bellow?
Because when yet a youth he'd grown uncouth without a fellow.

Why does the moron suffer poisonous grand mal?
Because friends were forbidden to this kid: he had no pal.

And why does the moron go through all of the above?
Because he's told, "Go for the gold! Forget the freakin' love."

Zen and Zoroaster: a Nonsense Rhyme (from AmalgaMates)

So: sprack Zarathustra? No! 'Mum' was the word.
And since nada Z uttered, 'twas nada we heard.
Proving overly close-mouthed, as still as the grave,
Z vouchsafed us no greeting -- not ceding a wave.

So: sprack Zarathus-? Nope! I deemed the dude dumb.

Z turned tacitly tongue-tied: the word remained 'mum.'

Zara's bouche bided buttoned. his pie hole stayed shut.

All channels of intercommunion were cut.

So: sprack Zara-? Nossir! Not even a whisper

(thus spurning our learning if Z were a lisper).

Z's soundlessness smacked of the uber-laconic:

no sonorous speeches; no spiels untrasonic.

So: heard we Z sounding the word of God? Nein!

Nor no word of Man neither. We'd nothing, in fine,

to display for our minding, unbinding our ears.

(Zoroastrianism's gone soft, it appears.)

Beyond Apples (A Nonsense ABC)

An apple, they say,
if ingested each day,
travels out of its way
to keep doctors at bay.

Keeping other professionals
out of one's hair
calls for alternate flora --
some, specimens rare.

Sundry veggies, fresh fruits
plus a fungus or two:
'prophylactical pommes."
(Aren't you due for a few?)

An artichoke dip
gives attorneys the slip.
A beetroot ragout
bids one's banker adieu.
Can't a cantaloupe tell
CEOs: "Go to hell"?
Do not damson plums shout,
"Dentist! Outta my mout'!"?

Curly endive tells en-
trepreneurs: "Get thee gone!"
Fresh fennel informs
financiers: "Follow norms!"
Garden greens, gently toss'd
order gen'rals: "Get lost!"
Meanwhile, haricot verts
warn head chefs: "Don't you dare."

An ice plant postpones
each investor who phones.
Sev'ral jackfruits impede
a chief justice's greed.
Can a kumquat prevent
Ku Klux Klansmen't intent?
Yes, and lychees deter
a librarian's slur.

A mango may stymie
the manager slimy.
Ripe nectarines thwart 
nurse's aides out of court.
Sweet onions will hound
obstetricians, I've found,
plus, a passion fruit wraps
up political chaps. 

A quince circumscribes 
vulgar quilt stuffers' gibes.
Raw rhubarb espies 
ev'ry repo man's guise.
One strawberry stops
senatorial fops,
and a turnip precludes
telemarketing dudes.

An ugli prevents 
most used-car-dealing gents.
Vanilla beans queer 
vets from bending your ear.
Wet watercress halts
all a webmaster's faults,
while a xiqua impedes
errant X-men's misdeeds.

A yam interferes 
with most yard engineers.
A zucchini denies 
zealous zinc-plating guys.

Produce, sun-dried or fresh.
None from concentrate...nu?
(And an apple a day 
still tells MDs: "F.U.!")