All aboard my autogyro..."

All aboard my autogyro,
park'd between row X and Y row.
Pilots...? Guys from Gyra (Spyro).
Join 'em not if you're a tyro.
Now departing Cairo! 

Boarding now's my bumper car.
It's slow, but ranges wide. And far.
Your stewardess, Pat Benatar,
brews coffee, tea and Kristallklar.
Next stop? Zanzibar!

Cabs uncopious...? Catch my currach.
Neither's cake, but, nowt to worrach.
Share with me (and Ace Venturach),
s'long as you're in no great hurrach.
Now departing Thurrock!

"Dammit, Dog, don't drive dat dogsled
down dem dork-deep drifts," Snoop Dog said,
hoisting (how...?) one whole half-hogshead.
"Now dig what you did: dat dog's dead!"
Let's revisit Brideshead!

Entering my escalator,
guests encounter "SmorgasSeder."
"Matzo first," rants Reb Ralph Nader.
"Have your afikoman later...
once we've crossed th'equator."

Fairer...? Nothing than my ferry.
Friends float free, but Fie! Don't tarry!
Challah-bearing Halle Berry
serves loaves warm (and "buerre-y"...very!)
Lunch at Brundonderry!

Guidebooks call guests "gondolees," a-
gondola'd by Gondoleezza
Rice, my gondoliere-cum-visa-
mater here in Greater Pisa.
Next stop: San Theresa!

Heading hellward...? Hire my handcar;
booking agent's Ralph V. Shandkar.
Best for guests who ramble and car-
een. (In Greenland, it's a bann'd car.)
We don’t stop at Kand'har!

Board my Mitsubishi "I" Car! 
Dwight D. Eisenhower ("Ike") ar-
ranges for his look-alike car
to be mine when he drives my car."
Next stop: Isle of "Rikar"!

Join me in my jade jinrickshaw,
though its pilot, Rob ("The Mick") Shaw
(under "M" in Webster's Dicshaw-
nary) often phones in sick. Psh-a-a-aw!
Skip The Res: too Chick'shaw.

Killer rapids...? Book my kayak.
Back-up fry cook Stephen Fry, back
from Mae West's suggests guests lie back,
chill and try his Brie on Zweibach...
named "Best 'Nosh in Nayak."

Loop-the-looping in my luge...? Herr
Larry Lege,'* illustr'ous luger.
Beggarlike, I hire this Hoosier
'cuz I cannot wax more choosier.
Next stop: Newport News...hear...?

     * Pronounced 'ledge,' the reference is to Larry Legend
aka Larry Byrd, NBA Hall-of-Famer from the Hoosier State. 

Mot'ring in my Morris Mini,
maitre d'auto Albert Finney
brandishes a mandolin he
made with aid from Laura Linney.
Next stop: Olde New Guinea!

Now let's "nav" my Nucl'ar sub. Ya'
heard its "nom-de-vro-o-o-oom"* by Dubya
mispronounc'd for years. Oh, Shrub! Ya'
stunk as Pres, yet lunkheads "lub" ya.
Next stop: Suburbubya!

     * Ala the "nom-de-plume," the so-called
"nom-de-v'ro-o-o-oom" is an alternate name
for a power source. Of course, W was notorious
for, among his many creative uses of the language,
a chronic metathesistic mispronunciation of
'nuclear,' regularly rendering it as 'nucular.'

Outings in my Oldsmobile,
once cater'd by Shaquille O'Neal,
are catered now by Howard Keel.
(Imagine how that makes Shaq feel:
like losing at Deauville.)

Plant your pants seat in my punt.
A poling pair, recalcitrant,
provides the paddling. Frank's* up front.
(In back, I've posted Allan Funt,
past-polester from Ft. Hunt.

      * Francis Albert Sinatra

Quiet, kids! Don't quit my quint.
It's old, but in condition mint.
Shout "'hoy" to helpmate Captain Flint,
My water-worthy wunderkind.
The next stop: New Orli'nt!

Fixates does William Butler Yeats,
who fits guests' feet for roller skates
and elevates the going rates
down at my Rink (A-12's he hates):
"We fit all fifty states!"

Stop! Occupancy max'mum's three
aboard my solitary ski.
There's (1) you; (2) man Friday Lee
van Cleef; plus one more...hey! It's me-e-e-e!
Next stop: Menomonee!

Try my tourist-class toboggan! 
Travel blogger Uta Hagen
damns with faint praise on her blog in 
comments like, "This "bogg'' beats joggin'!"
Next stop: West Sheboggan!

Unrival'd artiste Lena Horne
waits tables on my unicorn,
shares tips with all the foreign-born
garcons. She shouts, "What's mine be your'n!"
Next stop is Californ.'

"V'ro-o-o-o-oom" goes my velocipede.
That's why my chauffeur, Hari Reede,
warns, cautions, pleads, "Be sure to heed
all traffic signs...plus, ple-e-ease don't speed!"
Next stop: East Runnymede!

Welcome 'board my welcome wagon.
Welcoming you? O. J. Dragon.
Sometimes fun; sometimes an agon-
y: Best pack your flask…or flagon!
Next stop: Bilbo's Bag En'!
   
     * Oliver J., noted Kuklapolitan and good friend – 
but just a friend! -- of Fran Allison, and no relation
to the isoinitialed scofflaw Simpson. 

Xebeceers who crew my xebec
(one's call'd Beckham; t'other's Glenn Beck)
urge all guests, "Avoid the poop deck!"
And...stop asking, "Are we there yeck?"
Third-to-last stop: Tea Neck!

You're invited 'board my yacht. 
Invite a guest; invite one not!
I'm bringing Phnom Penh pal Pol Pot.
As to the fare...? How much you got...?

Next stop: Connecticott!

Z-z-z-z-z-z-zs guests grab in my Zamboni
follow snacks of Rice-a-Roni,
b'loney stew and roux'd spumoni
served by Mitchells (Chad and Joni).
Last stop: Isle of Coney! 

Attention, please! Passengers must exeunt.
Every last vehicle is now out of service.

Hot & Not Potatoes (from AmalgaMates)

Grow fingerlings!
Add swept-back wings!
Fly Aeroflot Potatoes!

With Knipps* serve Russets!
('Tain't no fuss; it's 
simply Brat Potatoes.).

     * Types of sausages featuring
a mix of meat and grain.

A mash too thick
won't do the trick. 
Steer clear of Clot Potatoes!

Does fungi grow
in Idaho?
Why not! Dry Rot Potatoes!

Without 'em, salad* 
just ain't valid:
Eisenstadt Potatoes!

     * German potato salad, i.e.

Electric sparks
derived from arcs
take Forty Watt Potatoes!

"Got Milk?" Passe!
T-shirts today
are asking, "Got Potatoes?"

Saartjie's* got 'em
on her bottom:
Hottentot Potatoes!

    * Saartjie Baartman aka
the Hottentot Venus.

Which 'tater skins
forgive your sins? 
Im Himmel Gott! Potatoes!

From Matthew, 5*
these spuds derive.
They're Tytl'n' Jott Potatoes.

     * Specifically, Matt., 5:18 of
the 1526 Tindale translation of the NT.
(The spelling is different, of course,
in the later King James version.)

Some sides of fries 
come paired with ties.
They're Windsor Knot Potatoes!

Not sold in pails
but holy grails.*
They're Lancelot Potatoes!

     * And, just as often, holey grails,
allowing the spuds to drain.

Draw fractal plots
with Tater Tots!
Use Mandelbrot Potatoes!

Am I a yam? 
Why, yes: I am!
Are you, too, Not Potatoes...?

Heinrich Ott:
one's Swiss; one's not.*
Together: Ott Potatoes.

     * The younger Heinrich O
was a Swiss bobsledder;
the elder, a German physicist. 

The last's Rebirth
(for what it's worth).
They're Seven Plot Potatoes!*

      * The first six are Overcoming
the Monster, Rags to Riches, the Quest,
Voyage and Return, Comedy and Tragedy --
at least according to Christopher Brook.

"'As many as' 
Augustus* has,"
respond the "Quot?" Potatoes.

     * Caesar Augustus was the founder
of the Roman Empire and a fluent
Latin speaker. "Quot?" asks 'how many?'

Your cottage fries
have Mother's eyes?
They're Rorschach Blot Potatoes!

Come mealtime, Jews
and blacks refuse
their Marge C. Schott Potatoes!

Who runs 5K
Thanksgiving Day? Why,
Turkey Trot Potatoes! 

Of robot tubers
they're the 'uber's: 
Uberbot Potatoes!

With loving labors,
feed your neighbors!
Vacant Lot Potatoes!

It's not their fault
they need more salt:
they're Wife of Lot* Potatoes!

     * Genesis, 19 tells how this poor
woman was turned into a pillar of salt. 

They'll flip for chips 
and chili dips!
Use -ic (EXot-) Potatoes! 

Remove the rudder;
serve with butter!
Yummy Yacht Potatoes! 

Veg'tarian
Sumerians
eat Ziggurat Potatoes!

Ade's Ken of Economy and Eight Other Smidges Too Far (Nonsense Rhymes)

Ade's* ken of economy...? Groundless; astounding:

Ade sins for a penny. (Ade’s in for a pounding.)

     * Ade when he's at home is grand grandson AZB.

How ever shall "done deals" or faits accomplis grow

if Congress be led by the Knights Who Say "Negro!"?

Islamicist cinemen, Shi'ite or Sunni,

shall garner no Oscars: they haven't a Clooney.

John's* Trask family dwelt on the outskirts of Eden:

both Trask twins were "-ists": Aron, "pur-"; Caleb, "hedon-"

     * Author Steinbeck 

Ms Sawyer's* brew notes grew: she waxed iambic

once arid Mary'd had a little lambic.

      * Mary Sawyer, later Mrs. Mary Tyler, she of "Mary's Lamb" fame.

Mitt's Humvee's chauffeur'd by a dormant Sir Dwight Streeme...?

Inquire, when Ike wakes, "What was Mitt's Hummer's Knight's dream...?"

I'd aid your recall of the Legion of Decency

calling "Nude Pledge of Allegiance" indecent. See...!?!

Unable to pen a penultimate line post

failed Alzheimer's tests...? That's one sure Auld Lang Signpost!  

Xiu -- chef at Panda Baroque on Quemoy --

serves a sig dish called Johann Sebastian Bach Choy.

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.