Beyond the Laughing Buddha (from AmalgaMates)

Herein array'd be Buddhas, laid
in alphabetic chain.
They'll errors quell. (They'll dare, as well,
through zen, to entertain.)
Neglect them not! Connect each dot,*
your dharma to obtain.

     * If you speak Hindi, dots are bindis,
never marks of Cain. And if you don't speak Hindi, 
they're just dots. (Does that explain?)


ApPeale, the Asking Buddha,
proposes queries three:
[1] "How d'ya do?" [2] '' Cool! An' you...?""
[3] "What in hell's a 'Sri'...?"
(Non sequiturs, these, it occurs.
Feel free to:  [  ] dis  [  ] agree.)

BelChantz, the Burping Buddha,
eructs "As Time Goes By,"
accompanied on treble reed
by me -- don't dare ask why.
(Pair'd, formerly, with Kenny G.,
whose fing'ring's fa-a-ar from fly.)

CaTarrh, the Coughing Buddha,
whose throat conceals a frog,
sounds so-o-o-o like Satch. But here's the catch:
CaT's bill'd "The Well-vet Fog."
(Not on your life will "Mack the Knife"
CaT caterwaul en blog.)

DohSupp, the Doping Buddha,
your limner* limns as lean:
a shade, a ghost, "DohS" overdos'd
on metamphetamine.

     * Me: Sgt. N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee
(the N's for 'Nicotine').

EnGrave, the Etching Buddha --
here tann'd a Van Dyke brown,
declares, "My dear, why not wait here...?
I'll bring my etchings down" --
EnG's poach'd lampoon of Thurber's 'toon.
(EnGrave's a knave, a clown.)

FiNesse, the Frailing Buddha,
picks six-string licks galore.
FiN's added string? It's "just the thing":
FiN's motto's "More is more."*
Like mentor Seeger, FiN's "de reegueur" --
railing 'gainst the war.

     * FiN's new octet's The Buddhaettes:
none like 'em heretofore.

GroTesk, the Grinning Buddha
apes Carroll's Cheshire Cat.
Long tail...? Long gone! Claw'd paws...? Withdrawn!
Such traits show great "eclat."
GroTe's jaw's in view because ('tis true)
GroTe's face won't fade. ('S'too fat!)

HarRumph, the Huffing Buddha,
employs a gas mask bong
to toke his Rhino. (Like your wino,
'Rumph well knows it's wrong.
This only shows how 'Rumphy goes
along to get along.)

IgGnatz, the Itching Buddha,
hosts gnats like Drumpf boasts dough --
thought lacks, withal, The Donald's gall,
lies, braggadocio,
pathologies, cabalas...Jeez!
Though Ig stays, Drumpf must go!

Jean-Joque, The Joshing Buddha,
does stand-up in his youth;
a spell, as well, at SNL.
(He kill'd at House of Ruth.)
Still...Hope he's not, because he's got
Gil Gottfried's lack of couth.

KhaRote, the Kvetshing Buddha:
complaints, complaints, complaints!
(But, after all, I must recall:
bodh'sattvas make poor saints.
"No Mother T. be me," warns he.
"An even temper taints.")

LeTharge, the Lolling Buddha,
looms large down Sarge's Tap.*
LeTh lacks Lot's pep; well-earn'd's his rep:
he's call'd "Nocturnal Pap."

     * That's Sgt. N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee
(the N here stands for 'Nap.')

MoTette, the Moulting Buddha:
skin-slough-'n'-shed his thing.
MoTe's strips all while he's strumming viol
and humming "Moultin' Swing."
Finessing that -- faith's "tit-for-tat" --
The Christ scats "Ring-a-ding..."

NouVelle, the Noshing Buddha:
His ma's Subbotnik Jew.
Says Mom: "NouVelle, mein zun: zup well!
Nor nein neglect to chew!"
(She adds as well: "You're pale like hell."
Replys NouVelle: "Says you!")

OyVey, the Oozing Buddha:
from eyes 'n' ears, from nose,
from butt 'n' lips slick syrup drips.
Quick! Fetch a pail 'n' hose!
(Of newsy ooze and such-like goos,
sick Sarah Palin knows.)

ParPhor, the Putting Buddha,
is slow to break a sweat.
But once "Puttz" does, he's sunk -- because
a bogie's worst when wet.
(I call him "Puttz" and "Gutz" and "Buttz"
and "Clutz." But "Nutz"...? Not yet.)

QuiQuid,* the Quarr'ling Buddha.
"QuiQ" lives to fight. "F**k flight!:
I argue pro and con; I blow
hot/cold; I row left/right."

     * 'Quidquid' is Latin for 'whate'er.'
(I trust that sheds some light.)

RapPunz, the Rapping Buddha,
won't shout in Saxon tongue.
Nor seek do freaks to speak the Greek
from which RapP's raps be wrung.
Still...RapP be boss: check out that cross
which 'round RapP's neck be hung.

SaShay, the Sleuthing Buddha,
inveighs his days away:
"I'd dare -- today! -- Poirot portray...
if Pinter'd penn'd the play."
Al Finney's cry...? "Just let him try."
(No comment from Suchet.)

TouChé, the Toddlin' Buddha.
On "Toush" Chi* chose to dote.
Is up Chi's thumb? You bet! (In sum:
TouChé's still hip...hot...haut!)

     * To learn that 'Chi''s 'Chicago,' I
suggest you read this note!

UreOwtt, the Umping Buddha.
Team's fate...? Check, mate, his name!
How well we'll do is subject to
the way he calls the game.
But, safe or out, he's still a lout.
His calls are always lame.

VaMooze, the Voting Buddha,
vents, "Vote the varmints out!"
'Tis understood VaM's motive's good.
Wields VaM the ample clout...?
('Tis moot: PAC Suit's are resolute;
our future's much in doubt.)

WahrRoom, the Warring Buddha.
In genocides he's starr'd.
If peace broke out, there's little doubt
WahrR's record would be marr'd.
(My view's here voiced: that WahrR be hoist
upon his own petard.)

XingXiao, the Xysting Buddha,
sits 'sconced in his arcade.
Its rostrum spins: so, for his sins,
Xing swivels in the shade.
"If 'tweren't for me," whines Xing, "I'd be
lieutanant senior grade."

YoLande, the Yachting Buddha,
sits watch on Empress decks.
YoL sports a cap -- though for his nap
defers to turtlenecks.
(When naptime's done, he'll join the fun
exploring sunken wrecks.)

ZoneOwtt, the Zzzzz-zing Buddha?
Tres fab at grabbing Zs.
Those shades of his permit this wiz
to "rest his eyes." (Oh, plee-e-e-eease!)
His wife agrees: since Xmas, he's
depleted her chablis.

Thus ends this Book of Buddhas.
I've exhausted six and twenty.
Yessir! Ev'ry letter -- plus, what's better,
proffer'd puns aplenty:
a reprimand for skeptics...and
a jog for cognoscenti.

Buddha Codha

AtChoo, the Arctic Buddha:
his agony's untold.
His raiment -- rime -- some see as slime.
AtCh calls it 'Eskimould.'
(Result...? AtChoo's well troll'd.)

StooLoose, the Soiling Buddha,
dreads dirty-di'per days.
No puerile pup, "StooL" messes up
in 'adultlescent" ways. 

Alpha Betes or 26 Animal Elites (A Nonsense ABC)

The Apogeeraffe? Too high-handed by half!

“Eyes right, wheat! Lean left, chaff!” barks he -- naffer than naff.

(Doth his rod and his staff comfort? Don’t make me laugh.)

The Boffolo roam. We'd so hoped they’d stay'd home.

They forego brush and comb and, like raths label’d ‘mome,’

they outgribe when in Rome, tagging Saint Peter’s dome.

The Charge d’Afferret, though 24-caret,

just sent back the claret, a vin not sans merit.

Sighed he, “I daren’t dare it.” (The wait staff shall share it.)

The Deepseal’s psychosis won’t yield to hypnosis,

thus nobody knows why His Gnosis cries, “No, Sis.”

(I’ve heard this prognosis perturb’d his proboscis.)

The Emperorang has abandoned our gang.

Why? The Fat Lady sang. He: “I’d pass without pang.”

She: “All out let it hang!” –  i.e., “Don’t give a dang!”

The Firstplaice’s firms corner angiosperms,

feed the world – on his terms. He gives cereals perms,

calls legumes “mes les‘germs.’” (On his house, plagues of worms!)

The Genuineocerous? Petty bourgeoise, sirrahs!

Calls his wife “La-a-ahzarus.’ Once toured the Bosporus

(in a currach – no bus) with Cher, Ram Das and us.

The Inside Traccoon’s booked a full afternoon

in his club’s billiard room, whining, “Whar’s me toime flune?”

(Such a pear-shaped maroon’s earned “a trip to the moon.”)

The Jupiterns’ kid mails home pics from Madrid.

She’ll not Facebook her vid like her kid sisters did.

Keeps the negatives hid. (Of her ilk we’re well rid.)

The Keyttiwake’s wife collects faux Duncan Phyfe.

With such stuff her roost’s rife. Keens Ms K, “’Tis me life!”

(Her bids cut like a knife: here she hollers, “Stop, ‘theif’!”)

The Lezruph-Tew Weevils cavort just like Knievels.

Friends call ‘em “Les Gleefuls.” Of chutzpah they’ve treefuls.

(Come Spring, we’ll see seafuls. My wife deems ‘em “deevils.”)

The Magnacum Louse, scoundrel, bounder and souse,

craves a “less mature” spouse. He intends to trade “vows”

with his frau’s blousy housemaid, Ms. Scarlett O’Strauss.

The Notbadger’s mater’s an ex-corp’rate raider

aka Dot Vader. To cash out, they paid her,

the witch. (We all hate her – though most would still date her.)

The Optimuskrat calls his tie “Nick Cravat.”

The guy’s, likewise, “like that” with Burt Lancaster’s hat.

When he’s asked, “Where’s it at?” he replies, “Laundromat!”

The Parve Gnu summers in haunts home to Hummers.

She’ll brawl with all comers. She castigates plumbers,

machinists and mummers. Her heart’s so hard. (Bummers!)

The Qualiteal’s valet – who co-owns a chalet

in northeastern Calais with Megan Mullally –

moonlights at the ballet far out in the Valley

to help the Halal Ladies Aid. (What a pal, eh?)

The Reagle’s arranged for her sex to be changed.

Cracks her husband, “Deranged? Nah! Just faintly ‘unhainged,’

though her scalp’s grown so manged that we’ve now grown estranged.”

The Staytadee Hart endows priedieus at Chartres,

twelve thought objects of art till the things fell apart.

(The frugal ol’ fart should have bought ala carte

at the Old Spitalfields or the Merchandise Mart.)

The Toppadee Lion stalked Conan O’Brien.

The pair met while high on some ‘shrooms neo-Mayan.

I’ve ne’er seen such cryin.’ (Would you care to buy in?)

Ubear chaired the board at both Chrysler and Ford –

gigs which hauled in a hoard. “Still,” sighed Ubear, “I’m bored,”

(When he died -- thank you, Lord! -- rival share prices soared.)

The VIPeacock channels Theo van Gogh.

“Getting laid’s now a lock: all the chicks on our block

really dig it. You grok? You’ve not tried it? Don’t knock!”

The Wowl went away. He’s been missing since May.

Where? His lawyers won’t say. (Were he kidnapped, who’d pay?

Do you know how to pray? You’re agnostic? Oy vay!)

The Xanadugong claims he’s “done nothin’ wrong.”

Nowt illicit…as long as one discounts the bong…

and the jaunts to Hong Kong with his steno, Ms. Wong

(of the silver sarong?) He was seen…in her thong!

He’ll be gone before long. (Same ol’ dance; same sad song.)

Yakohinoor sleeps. Christians give him the creeps

(“Feed me lambs! Feed me sheeps!”) As he sows, so he reaps.

Karma’s playing for keeps. (He who reads of him weeps.)

Zebravado (the lout!) feels he’s fin’lly found out

what it’s really about: “…shekles, shaggin,’ great clout,

plus some hooch fer yer mout’ durin’ stretches o’ drought…”

Listen closely! No doubt you can yet hear him shout,

as his doomed soul heads sout’ on the Abaddon route:

“Dammit! All this, for nowt…?”

On Rendezvous Road: A Constrained Nonsense Rhyme

Like bald-faced Bacchantae, 
we amble andante,
most oft in flagrante, 
disfiguring Dante. 
Well-oiled on chianti, 
we're todo avante:

me, Jimmy Durante 
and Moliere's Oronte, eh...? -- 

     which well-travell'd uomos now make their abode

in their coachhouse-cum-bed sit on Rendezvous Road.

Shall I check out chez Chaucer...? 
The husband's a tosser!

His penchant...? To boss her. 

Hers...? Hurl cup and saucer. 

     Their Prime-the-Pump Pub (gone the days its mead flow'd)

now's their gated gazebo on Rendezvous Road.


Past Latinas -- plump nannies, 
jet tresses in rollers,
au pair girls (I'm one 
of their avid extollers)
advancing their prams, 
pushing buggies and strollers,

some happy as clams, 
others down in the dolors -- 

     I gawk as they walk through my area code.

"Hasta pronto"s...? We've plenty on Rendezvous Road.

I shall not stroll with Polo,* 

nor Genevieve's Golo,**

nor -- cor! -- Señor Cholo:*** 

I'd sooner roam solo.

     When plodding empartner'd, all passion's plateau'd.
(Plus, one's rarely forlorn along Rendezvous Road.)

     * Explorer Marco. ** Genevieve de Brabant and "her" Golo appear
in Proust's In Search of Lost Time. *** Footnote to come.

I pass Phileas Fogg, 
exercising his dog.
(Phil refuses to jog: 
calls us dudes who do "wog!")...
     All our neighborhood's rank'd with a crude color code.
Oh, the redlining's rampant on Rendezvous Road.

Best give Argos a miss. 
Fido's faithless. Ulys-
ses preserves the mutt's fec-
es -- no mission for sis-
sies -- to compost his lawn. (My analyses show'd
how the grass is much greener on Rendezvous Road.)

Should I happen on Gilgamesh, 

flashdancing in the flesh,

should I suggest we mesh -- 

though our names lack a resh...?

     Reshes occur, as is commonly know'd,
in some old Hebrew spellings of 'Rendezvous Road.'

"Mississinbads" -- Huck, Jim -- 
leave their tiny pal Tim,

a lad lame in one limb 

(who'd forget about him!)

     as they raft Bigly River, whence charlatans go'd.
(One now rarely spots rafts running Rendezvous Road.)

    
Henry's pup Peter Fonda, 
dark Daniel Deronda,

a fishwife called Wanda -- 

all stuff'd in my Honda:

     my heart-felt homage to the Family Joad.

'Tis one wrath-fill'd grape harvest on Rendezvous Road!

Of Ms Dorothy's dog Toto, 
"The Marsh" (Marshall Tito),

"The Bish" (Bishop Tutu), 

the tug Little Toot o-

     -nly one is a trav'ler -- which tends to explode
all those myths that we're drifters on Rendezvous Road.

Here trods Tortoise. There's Hare. 
Yonder's Toad: all dwell there.

While I'm taking the air -- 

as I mostly do bare --

up jumps Toad, "Have a care: 

folks be racing here, Herr.

Amble nude if you dare." 

Opine I: "C'est la guerre!"

Nonetheless, fair is fair, 

talking toads being rare,

though the outcome, I swear, 

is a foregone affair:

     as per u., the Hare's sped while the Tortoise has slow'd --
in their annual run along Rendezvous Road.


The Good Book's Ol' Man Moses 
haunts Rendezvous' closes,

grows bushels of roses, 

maroon quelque choses

which tickle our noses.

He eaus 'em with hoses:

each hose, one supposes, 

a hose which he knows has

been lifted from Lowe's. Is 

he blind? J'hovah knows! Viz.,

in gardening shows, his 

(those blooms he exposes)

     win ribbons -- and yet the man's lawn goes un-mow'd.
(Do I smell some rebellion on Rendezvous Road...?)
   

I spy knights call'd Quixote, 

Ms Foster, call'd Jodie,

one Goodman dubb'd Dodie, 

one Perfect 10 (Bo D.),

Ken Kramer's chum Brodie, 

historian Claude E.,

-cologne salesgirls (eau de-), 

four forgers of faux d.,

kid-lit wit Collodi, 

Dutch Dorsey's new roadie,

a whale christen'd Moby, 

two tree surgeons (Bodhi),

a donkey named Hodie, 

Denzel (nicknamed 'Bro D.'),

Durante (still throaty), 

Ms Fields (that was Totie),

the sous chef at Roti,

Lugasi (call'd 'Moti'),

a yogi named Joti,

five farmhands from Noti --

     from each one Cantabrian tales ala mode
flow -- let slip as they trip...along Rendezvous Road.

Subsequent Stones (from AmalgaMates)

Which band will, though right now unknown,
inherit Rock-'n'-Rolldom's throne?
Who's next? Some Keith or Jagger clones?
In brief: who'd lief become the Stones?

Perhaps 'twill be the Altar Stones: 

The Alt's attire? A"choir"d robes.
They ply Thai lyres resembling globes
and prance past oscillating strobes
to lays of Leopold's and Loeb's.
Their gigs end badly (as did Job's)
once Phahtha Phatts (on bass) disrobes.
The CIA's conducting probes:
affront, Alts do, fans' frontal lobes.

Perhaps the Blarneys be the ones:

The Blarneys boogie dress'd in green.
Each coleen taps her tambourine,
in time, behind a smoke machine.
They cover Cher; they cover Queen.
They need much work on their routine --
perhaps explore the Country scene.
I heard 'em last last Hallowe'en.
On Blarneys I am none too keen.

When will the Cobble Stones arrive? 
    
The Cobbles crack a giant clam
to wrap up their finale/jam.
Their keyboard player's quite the ham!
He doubles on a batt'ring ram.
Each tune? E, A, B7, blam!
(C7 blam? No, thank you, ma'am!)
For Cobbles I don't give a damn.
They're through! (You blue? No way I am!)

Perhaps the Druid Stones will thrive:
    
The Drus refuse to form a line.
They form an oval, then recline
to purr and play pan pipes -- supine!
(The Druid's groupies like this fine.)
Their soloists -- on oboes -- shine,
though playing prostrate harms the spine.
They crave applause; they've garnered thine.
The bottom line...? They'll not get mine.

Maybe the Eddy Stones are they:
    
The Eddy Stones! The Frabjous Four
are Stanley, Ruben, Smeat...one more:
Big Ben, unmentioned heretofore.
The Eddys rock! (Of that I'm shor.')
Their resume holds tales galore:
they meet in Smeat's Dad's Hardware Store --
they've done so since before the war.
The Eddys leave one wanting Moore.*
     * Dudley Moore

Or will the Flint Stones seize the day?
    
The Flints rely on Bible tales
and sundry prehistoric scales
to fashion keens, laments and wails.
They pat on pans; they frail on pails.
They pelt these pots with flints and shales,
then weigh those sounds on Richter scales.
The Flint Stones channel Christian Bales,
but call on God...when all else fails.

Perhaps the Gall Stones are the heir:

The Gall Stones haven't yet come out.
Still, gay pride's what they're all about.
They spout; they tout. They flaunt; they flout.
They pout performing "Twist 'n' Shout."
The Galls got gall; of that no doubt.
Can they stay hot and not burn out?
They've weathered much creative drought,
but now they're back! (Well...just about.) 

Or are the Head Stones four who dare:
    
The Head Stones, wakers of The Dead
(they cover Weir from A to Zed,
thus aka "The Grey-Fill'd Head"),
be "Rockin' Rebs" -- or so Time said.
Their last time out, releases read
"Khalid, Hamid, Fatima, Fred:
these four launch missiles towards Club Med."
That did it: now they've made their bed.

Perhaps 'twill be the I. F. Stones: 
    
The I. F. Stones spout freedom songs
accompanied by chimes and gongs
in hopes of righting social wrongs.
Their backup's sung by du'l dugongs
who sport -- some plain, some tie-dyed -- thongs
beneath pink extra-long sarongs.
Most fans, assembled in their throngs,
approve -- though not without their bongs.

Perhaps 'twill be the Jelly Stones:
    
The Jelly Stones -- so say some stats --
sport sev'ral music-drama hats:
their Grammy-winning "Men in Spats"
(redacted Wodehouse) rivals "Cats."
Their "Guildensteene or Rozenkratz
Be Dead" -- a work in thirteen flats --
just opened in Berlinerplatz.
(You'll never meet more pompous prats.)

Perhaps 'twill be the Kidney Stones:
    
The Kidney Stones: let's hope they pass.
The gals strum strings; the guys blow brass.
Their lead guitar, some chick called Cass,
plays double bass -- which she terms 'bass.'
The trombone player's such an ass,
he plies a slide of isinglass.
They boast a brand of working-class
accelerando fans term 'Jass.'

Perhaps the Lode Stones have a Jones:
    
The Lode Stones: an "attractive" band
whose members all play baby grand
with just the thumb of either hand,
have yet to score an encore -- and
they (though their orchestration's canned,
and music stands remain unmanned)
ignore petitions to disband.
The Lodes? They're here to stay, my "frand."

Perhaps the Moon Stones are the ones:
    
The Moon Stones, launching lunar themes,
deploy rogue planetoidal memes
composed as follow-ups to dreams
induced by teas with clotted creams.
(The teas are Bea's; the cream's Hakim's --
both drummers in the band, it seems.)
Their CD sinks to new extremes:
they lip-sync -- lamely -- the Supremes.

Or, heavy metal's Ninety Stones:
    
The Ninety Stones are so obese
they're now a conversation piece:
they weigh a thousand pounds apiece --
it says so in this press release.
In one new tune -- "Give Chance A Piece" --
they'd plann'd to sample the Police.
Sting's rep, through barristers in Nice,
has issued a "desist-and-cease."

Perhaps 'twill be the Ogham Stones:
    
The Oghams hail from Isle of Man.
They boogie as few buggers can.
Who plays the pedal attic fan...?
That's Gort. (Gort also drives the van.)
Who stands up -- on a pink divan --
and wails on rhythm warming pan?
That's Coll Muin! (Coll? You da man!)
The Ogham Stones: I (heart) dat ban'!

Or shall it be the Philo'stones? *
    
The Philo'stones are Philistines:
they're truly tasteless, by all means.
Are Albert Halls the Philos' scenes?
They'd maul those stalls to smithereens.
      The Philo'stones are Pliocenes:
garage and grunge are in their genes.
They'll rock in restrooms and latrines
unless their agent intervenes.
     The Philo'stones, like Charley Sheens,
have sex with pre-pubescent teens.
Their smoke machines belch propylenes.
They don't amount to hills o' beans.
     The Philo'stones ain't Wittgensteins:
they've waived all posh patrician miens.
They'll not achieve harmonic means...
despite those articles in 'zines.    
     * One of the pseudonyms used by the band
officially known as The Philosopher's Stones.

Perhaps 'twill be the Quarry Stones:
    
The Quarry Stones invented Rock:
they opened for the Brothers Bach!
Their drummer's kit includes a wok,
an ancient Chinese cinder block,
a gun without its shoulder stock,
twin frocks once donn'd by Doctor Spock,
and (last and least) a Franklin clock. 
(The sound thus spawned? A tad ad hoc.)

Or is it the Rosetta Stones?
    
The rockers called Rosetta Stones
take sympathetic strings called drones,
and add to those a choir of 'bones --
ensembles that result in tones
resembling Bell's on telephones.
They resonate with ancient crones.
(Still, though, for the Rosetta Stones
I've donn'd one monumental Jones.)

Perhaps 'twill be the Stixen Stones:
    
The Stixen Stones: their least disgrace?
Their leisure suits are hemp-laced lace.
Their favorite film is "Stroker Ace."
They channel Madame What's-'er-face.
Their mosh-pit boys they spray with mace.
They author songs concerning race
which feature memes like "Know Thy Place!"
I'd leave the Stixens lots of space.

Perhaps the Tombstones are the ones:
    
The Tombstones? Elderly, naive...
and in a state of such qui vive
as (dare I say it) to believe
the gig they play'd last New Year's Eve
they'll manage, this year, to retrieve.
(They gave: they figure they'll receive.)
I sat each down: "Ste-Ste-Ste-Steve,"
I stuttered, tugging at Steve's sleeve.
(I took aside as well Je-Jeeve,
Wa-Wally, and the Bea-Bea-Beav.)
"Don't grieve, old friends; old friends, don't grieve...
but, gentlemen: 'Tis time to leave."

Or one of sev'ral fin'shing Stones: 

The Uncut Stones? Continue rough.
The Vein Stones? Who's not had enough?
The Whet Stones' artistry's run dry.
The Xanthin Stones? Not for to "dye"!
The Yellows play in mustard masks.
The Zachs? But cease such tactless tacks:
To none of these Rock's torch bequeath
shall Ronnie, Charlie, Mick and Keith.

The Death of Pun at the Hands of Cliche (from What A's Not For)

Enjoy'd did pun a lengthy run. Alas, pun's dead. (Aloha, pun!)
At last, pun's lost. Cliché? You've won. Below's disclos'd the smoking gun.

AccuPUNcture's fail'd, untried! Its needles in a haystack hide.
Aunt Jemima’s PUNcakes? Through! (One can’t pun cakes 'n' eat ’em, too.)

Ballpoint PUNs have long been out: they’re nothin' to write home about.
Baba's "OPUN, sesame!"? No! Evil! (Speak no...? Hear no...? See no...!) 

ChoPUN's Polannaise? It's null! All work sans play makes Fred'rik dull.
Re: Cap PUN Trade, my plasma boils. Still: to the victors go the spoils.

Doughboy PopPUN Fresh? Nay! Nay! His, twists of fate? Nope: fat! (Ole!)
Deep PUN the Heart of Texas? Toast! (Of what pun's got, pun makes the most.) 

EmPUNada? Nada! Waste! One can't account, Señor, for taste!
What? More 'PUNadas? Issue's moot: "De gustibus est non...dispute!"

Fyodor ChaliaPUN? Dung! He's finished, friends: That fat gal sung!
Those bells 'n' whistles? Blown 'n' rung! (But did he leave with whom he'd brung?) 

The Gall'PUN’ Ghost got up and went. His horse's color? Different.
The Glass PUNagerie got bent. (It vow'd to give up puns for Lent.)

Hot cross PUNs consider spurned. Atrocious browned; godawful burned --
they're hell as far as I'm concerned. (Plus: punnies graved are punnies urned.)

It came: A PUN o' midnight! (Clear? Thank god it puns but once a year.)
Injun ElePUNts? Forgotten! Gain'd be nought if ventured's "nott'en"!

JaPUNese (the beetles)? Losers! Buggers (sic) cannot be choosers.
Judy dumps upon her PUNch. She explicates: "He's out to lunch!"

"Kawa PUNga, Masked Man!"? Fold! All goop that gleams, it seems, ain't gold!
Lily PUNs (the diva)? Mold! New tricks? Ne'er taught to dogs who're old!

Who'll PUNishment let fit the crime with PUNdits stopping on a dime?
Their PUNchbowl's day -- no longer full. Those PUNdits now are full o' bull.

MarziPUN (the sweet)? Too old! Too short! Tout suite! Too oversold!
PUNs 'n' Needles? Possibl-...HOLD! That lot's best left out in the cold!

"Once uPUN a time..."? O'erdone! (Don't times fly when one's having pun?)
OPUN Door (the policy)? No! Cards played right -- but whose casino?

Pots 'n' PUNs? Disadvantageous! Tickled fancies prove outrageous.
50¢-Off Q-PUNs? Bummer! Swallow -- one! -- don't make no summer!*

     * A summer is a mathematician who adds up (say) the savings realized by using
50¢-off Q-puns to purchase budgies or other pet birds...but I digress.

RaPUNzel won't let down her hair...nor air her down. Raps Rap, "'Tain't fair!
That pair's too great a cross to bear...nor am I down with 'Truth or Dare.'"

Saddam's weaPUNs of destruction? "There somewhere..." was Dick's deduction.
Cheney's shocking! Such seduction! Stuck with strategies that suck? Shun!!

Tin PUN Alley? Cheap 'n' cheesy! Note that bridge? That's TapPUNzee, see?
"Up, up, PUN...away!" cries Kent. (All time with Clark proves time well spent.)

Voltaire's PUNgloss: Foolish fella. (Hell's where smiles be your umbrella.)
Wars Of IndePUNdance? Lost. (Who'd burn his bridge before he'd cross'd?)

Sure...eXPUNential growth occurs...if oPUN be one's eyes. (Are yours?)
When "ZooPUN/sandwich" tops a menu, first you slurp the soup, but then, you...

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