Aunties (A Nonsense ABC)

Attendance at Aunt Assid’s 
afternoon tea 
gets you one lump and two 
of that gal's LSD.
     Because Auntie Bellem’s 
pro Texas succession, 
shall urge she a new 
Northern War of Aggression...?
     Crazy Aunt Colonie’s 
"doin' that dance,”
wearing Uncle’s new jodhpurs! 
Look: Aunt’s in his pants!  
     Doesn’t Auntie D'Pressant 
seem lucid today...?
She's less manic, less panicy. 
Caught she “The Gay”?
     Enter the storm cellar, 
Auntie Em! Go!
One must not stay “Aunt Erior” 
when twisters blow.
     Fritz Creek: there dwells Auntie Frieze, 
hous'd with her hubby.
The temp’s Hyperborean. 
(Lucky they’re chubby.)
     Granted: Great Auntie Grafity’s 
signature tune
must be Les Paul and Mary Ford’s 
“How High the Moon.” 
     Hey, Auntie Hero. 
How goes it with you...?
Feeling seedy...? Or greedy...? 
Or just feeling blue...? 
     In light of Aunt Iquity’s
ninety-odd years,
some applause 
from her nonagenarian peers.
     Joining Auntie Jentacular’s 
pre-breakfast capers...?
Be sure to pack 
plenty of cigarette papers.
     Knahck (Auntie Knahck, 
aka Auntie K),
unlike Huxley, penned her “Antic Hay” 
in one day.
     Like her twin sister, Knahck, 
Auntie Lahck brakes for nowt, 
nihil, nix, nada, nothing: 
poor gal’s got the gout.
     Maybe Auntie McCassar 
does o’erdo the oil.
Adipocerous...? Nossir: 
just Uncle’s “gran’ goil.” 
     Never naughty, but nice, 
Auntie Niceene has been
like a father to me 
(though I speak with chagrin).
     Only I 
ever got Uncle Otto to tell
of the time back in Turkey 
when Auntie Och fell.
     Pretend Auntie Pursperant’s 
odor’s of flowers;
She’s Jewish – old school – 
and quite chary of showers. 
     Quiz Great Auntie Quayted; 
her memory’s choice.
Her nostalg’ae abound. 
(What’s unsound is her voice.)
     Recall that few aunts gel 
and most aunts do not.
Auntie Raysist, when team'd, 
ties a Gordian Knot. 
     So: Auntie Semitic’s 
invited to tea...?
With her mate Auntie Raysist...? 
Then, don’t invite me!
     Tell me, Aunt Tietum:
how many men died
in that Civil War battle 
(read ‘pact suicide’)...?
     Unless you’re a sharp 
or adept at a sting,
playing poker with Auntie Upp 
won’t be your thing. 
     Very well, Auntie Vyrus, 
you’ve proven your point:
You’ve infected my software 
and stunk up the joint.
     Will Auntie Worre rally, 
now she’s caught my cold...?
'Tis a case of “The Fortunes of Worre,” 
so I’m told. 
     Xie Guozong (Andy Xie) 
knows his capital stock.
Auntie Xie hides her hoard 
in her grandfather’s clock.
     You’ve heard Auntie Yeest 
curse her ringworm and thrush...?
She just can't seem to give 
vaginitis the brush.
     Zeal’ is what’s heard when folks ask, 
“What’s the word,
with which line Auntie Zion’s 
denyin’ occurred...?"
     Aunt Tipathie, Auntie Ballistik, 
Aunt Hill,
Aunt Eater, Aunt Arctique: 
all aunts, if you will.
     Aunt Igonee, Auntie Lope…
oodles of aunts.
But…isn’t it time we gave 
uncles a chance...?

Bananagram on 'Machine' Using 60 Seed Words (A Nonsense Rhyme)

 

The Bananagram, a poetic form of the author’s invention, is an elaboration upon a single word, the so-called spring word, which functions as a partial, near- or quasi anagram in that numbers of smaller words can be composed using one or more of its letters. These single words, so-called sub-words or seed words, are then used as end rhymes in an extended poetic composition, the final word of which is the spring word. 

Though he claimed, “I’m descended from Ham,”

while he conquered and saw and then came,

he’s descended from Eve, like I am.

Still, I fear I’ve forgotten his name.

Next, he chanted, “I’m Cuban, like Che.

And you’re right: I’m a knight who says “Ni.”

(I suspect the guy’s gay, or is ex-CIA

on a visit -- or is it just me?)

When he crowed, “I’m a beau of your ma’s.

We two met when we tour’d Viet Nam,”

contradict him did Ma – with her vim and her “Nah!”s

"Come on in from the cold. Remain ca’m.”

Why he clucked, “Mother christened me ‘Chen’

while supporting my chin in her han’”

remains vague – quite like Zen – for, in fact, he’s a hen 

someone (me!) chose to re-baptize ‘Chan.’

Then he claimed, “I’m a son of that Eichman

folks pretended descended from Cain.

(That his father was Eichman, that rabid Third Reich man,

was roundly rebuked, in the main.)

Next he feigned, “Dare I finger the hem

of a Buddha, a Christ or such men?

No. Their hems – though pro-tem – loom as long as an em,

while my finger’s as short as an en."

Then he jawed, “What’s my job? Feeding mice.

Without me, they’d go hungry,” quoth he.

“And, till you – though no vice – begin treating ‘em nice,

you shall never be mein bon ami.”

He supplies ‘em with cookies and chai,

treats they access by ringing a chime.

When you spot ‘em pass by, don’t neglect to say ‘Hi!’

(If they ask, “Who’s your grocer?” say I’m.)”

“Anti-rodents be no friends of mine.”

(He said that as he patted his chin.)

“You’re like Seven-of-Nine, or the ‘-stein’ known as ‘Ein-.‘ 

Or Mao’s kin-‘neath-the-skin, Ho Chi Minh.”

Is his surname initialed with ‘ai’ch,”

as is ‘Hortense,’ the name of my niece?

“Or ‘Hludowic the Vane,’ who’s called ‘Louis’ in Maine?

Or ‘Hermione, Butcher of Nice’?”

“No, it starts, as does ‘all,’ with an ‘a,’”

he replied, whereupon I honked, ‘Ha!’

“That is all very well,” he returned, “your ‘Ha!,” eh?

Though I so-o-o-o wish you’d answered me ‘ah-h-h…’”

Then he sung me a solfege: “…re-mi…”

“Why?” I asked. Answered he: “’Cuz I can.

I’m a ‘-man’ of that brand known as ‘he-.‘

I am the one-man band,” he said…An’

…out he drew from his shirtsleeve an ace.

(‘Twas of spades: I’d seen sev’ral at NIMH.*)

Then he grinned as he took up his mace

and trisected the card. (That’s just him.)

     * Pronounced ‘nim,’ as you might well imagine.

Then he hiccoughed three times – each a mean ‘hic!’ –

and remarked, “Though I loathe baking miche

(such a pain* turns me wan and anemic),

it remains my patisseri’l niche.

     * French for ‘bread’ and pronounced ‘pan.’

Lastly, grabbing a Coke with no ice,

he, with mostly maniacal mien,

yes, with mien mostly manic, in panic began: “Ich

bin ein seifenblase…” (ronamtische strasse)

i.e., I’m your bubble machine!”

The Ballad of Baby Jesus (A Nonsense ABC)

 
Baby Jesus! He agrees:

His home-from-home is now Belize.

Baby Jesus leaves Cadiz’s

church in search of devotees. 



Baby Jesus! His esprits

are captured in a cornice frieze.

Baby Jesus guarantees

good folk don’t croak from heart disease.



Baby Jesus! Ill at ease:

The Word mean ‘turd’ in Javanese.

Baby Jesus! On my knees

He leaves me with his little sneeze.



Baby Jesus’s “re, mi”s

enhance notated harmonies

in psalming contests overseas.

(He lost, despite disciples’ pleas.)



Baby Jesus makes me queas-.

y: no denying He’s the reas-

on I’ve curtailed my drinking sprees.

(I've started steeping herbal teas.)



Baby Jesus! His unease,

His vaults, His waltzes Viennese

have left Him with a dreadful wheeze.

Long gone are Baby’s “eXtacies.”



Baby Jesus, if You please:

I’d grab some long neglected Z-z-z-zs!

"They who have shell-likes..." Instruments of Torture or the Medieval Handbook of Penance (A Nonsense ABC)

Let they who have shell-likes to hear, hark 'n' heed!

All you would-be Chaucerian pardoners need 

is my metrical handbook of penance to read.

Let all sins of the fathers descend to their seed!

Who cops to commissions of copy-cat crimes

shall be shut up in cupboards with five angel chimes.

Who sins with a widow not yet under vows

shall ride herd on bass bumbasses sounded by sows.

Who investigates entrails of sturgeon or gar

shall be tethered to cocktail drums, aures ajar.

Whose aim proves amiss when engaging spittoons

shall acquire, by rote, two and twelve dudelsack tunes.

Who consumes raw crustacea as cure for catarrh

shall reside deep inside an electric guitar.

Who intimidates dwarves with a porbeagle bone

shall attend a Three Flexatones concert…alone.

Who’d harmonize not to “Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen”

shall arrange same for glockenspiel – verse and refrain.

Who loiters at seances, irking young girls,

shall be hitched to a humming top powered by squirr’ls.

Who covets his kinswoman’s nursemaid’s third daughter

shall finger an ingungu deep under water.

Who aggravates hermits on Hallowmas Eve

shall perform on a juice harp a recitative.

Who engages in practices arch or demonic

shall secretly tape The Kazoo Philharmonic.

Who pilfers a poor box, withdrawing a dime,

shall retune seven lithophones five at a time.

Who dismembers his priest with a circular saw

shall erect seven mirlitons using no straw.

Who’s chronic’lly late with his booster club dues

shall blow on a noseflute “The Saint Louis Blues.”

Who into idolatry hazards a foray

shall glue in his earshaft an oboe d’amore. 

Whose knee-to-groin thrusts makes of basses sopranos

shall sleep three score weeks beneath player pianos.

Who postpones his toilette until late afternoon

shall be strapped, par hazard, to a Turkish qanun. 

Who rustles his grand-nephew’s prize-winning cattle

shall chant twelve Te Deums astraddle The Rattle.

Who perjures himself in a courtroom of law

shall play medleys from Cats on a musical saw.

Who behaves as a scoundrel (no ‘if’s, ‘but’s or ‘and’s)

shall be forced to play Theramin using no hands.

Who Q-tips his ears more than once or twice daily

shall render Trane’s “Giant Steps” on ukulele.

Who dabbles in pyramid schemes or payola

shall bypass my giant Amati viola.

Who scandalous rumors refuse to quash

shall master the washboard while doing the wash.

Who yields to temptations to unlicensed sex

shall be bound to a xylophone set up by Czechs.

Who enters a cloister with ill-fitting togs

shall audition yueh ch’ins pick’d, pluck’d…pounded! – by dogs.

Who expresses obscenities starting with ‘f’

shall accommodate trough zithers till he goes deaf.

This handbook of penance has come to an end.

What remains? That its strictures be roundly “Amen!”d.

Any Donald But You-know-who (More Drumpf Doggerel)

  
I'll support an assortment of Dons – just not Drumpf. 
Defunct actor Ameche? Why not!
Donald Byrd, trumpet preacher? Donn, "comber de beach"? Sure!
I'll dig any Donald you’ve got!
     * Restauranteur Donn Beach, known as 'Don the Beachcomber.'

Don Cheadle the humanitarian? Great!
Ditto Crisp and DeLillo and Duck! 
I'm for Drysdale (yeah, really!), for Fagen the Steely
and Draper -- I don't give a fuck!

I’m for Ho the Hawaiian and Henley the Eagle.
(Mysogynist Imus? I'm torn!)
But Don Knotts and Don King and Don Mattingly? Regal!
I'm glad to blow any Don's horn. 

I refuse to support Father Donald McGuire*
around whom no one's children are safe.
I say "No!" to all priests caught despoiling the choir --
"Yes!" to Dondi the comic strip waif.
     * Now-jailed pederast Jesuit supported by Mother Theresa. 

Don Pardo, Don Pleasance! O'Connor, McLean!
Even Rickles and Rumsfeld I'll buy.
As I say, I'll support any Donald but Drumpf.
(Nor, indeed, do you need to ask why.)

With Sterling the racist one needs to take pause:
he airs neither honor nor umph.
But I'd Shula endorse. Donald Sutherland? 'Course!
I'm for ANY damn Donald but Drumpf.

Anyone For Go? (A Nonsense Rhyme_

Go ahead, scum: make my day! 

The Gobi, dry as dust...? No way!
Why Beckett’s Go-carts rarely go...?
They’re tired of waiting for Godot
to yodel “Go Down Moses”…no...?

No mangoes. No papayas, too...?

Then go for broke: try honeydew!
To Go-gos goes our dancing Jim,
like Gog and Magog ante him.
Go, Jimbo! Go hard to that rim!

“Go in and out the window”...? Yep!

Chicago jazz buffs scat that step.
They’ve raced – Goku and Superman –
in Golan and in Kazakhstan.
(Golightly...? Holly also ran.)

If Gomer Pyle’s a baritone, 

perhaps his gonads aren’t his own.
Let’s all go o’er the fiscal bluff
like Pogo Possum – in the buff,
or Gopher Pyle, who plies, “Enough!”

Go quietly...? Give up the ghost...?

Not Edward Gorey: he’d riposte.
Give up the ghost...? Not Edward G.,
our go-to guy for drollery.
(That man’s got milk – goat’s milk has he.)

“Go ugly late,” Govinda ‘llows.

“Works fine when eyin’ eine’s fraus.”
So says the lama under vows,
the actor (“Well played: take your bows!”),
or else the god who herds the cows.*

     * Lama Govinda (1898-1985), actor 
Govinda Ahuja (1963-   ) or Krishna’s young 
cowherding avatar Govinda.

Go west, Herr Doctor! Drive that ox!

(Like Seuss, I choose to box my Gox
while shabbous goyim shed their clothes.
How shall you know 'em...? Note their...hose.
(I guess Go’zilla’s one of those.)

Annus Terribilis or His First Year in Office

  
Spawn'd down some dank janitorial drain,

embolden'd by bogeymen febrile and dumpy,

besmirch'd by the marking of murderous Cain, 

Drumpf howls to who'll hear: "Apres moi, heirloom Trumpy." 

Fowl fluids -- muck, mayonnaise -- flow from twinn'd heads.

To Darwinian laws of the jungle Drumpf hews

as opponents Drumpf juliennes, minces and shreds:

Drumpf's ascendency augurs a world of fake news.

It’s severe civil sepsis I'm worried about.

Still, should dirges in octaves be suffer'd to swell?

Wa-a-a-a-ay too late for novenas; our time's running out.

Ple-e-e-ease! Abort this indecent descent into hell. 

"Dawns the Year of the Rat..." A Duodecennial Calendar

Dawns the Year of the Rat –

time to knot one’s cravat,
don equestrian hat 
and suede socks,
grab one’s fat fungo bat
and, departing one’s flat,
nail naff neighbors – ker-splat! -- 
with pop rocks.
Dear oh dear: here’s the Year of the Ox.

Dawns the Year of the Ox.
First, reset all the clocks.
Doing thus should outfox 
Rodney Steiger,
whose homage to Guy Fawkes
closes Pandora’s box:
Just hope Herr Muller talks 
to Herr Geiger!
But look here: here’s the Year of the Tiger.

Dawns the Year of the Tiger.
A white cub haunts my gar-
age; full-grown cats cry, “Gr-r-r-r…” 
(Bad habit.)
and when habitat’s nigh gar-
ment districts, feed dry gar-
lic toasts to it, via 
Dad's sabot.
Give a cheer! Here’s the Year of the Rabbit.

Dawns the Year of the Rabbit.
Bud (“Who’s on first...?”) Abbott
gets strip'd of his jabot 
for braggin,’
while Costello’s so drab, it
seems Lou ought to nab it.
Without it, his habit's 
seen saggin.’
Nothing queer: here’s the Year of the Dragon.

Dawns the Year of the Dragon,
When thirsts, off the wagon,
take more than one flagon 
to slake.
And, although I loathe raggin,’
green grog gets me gaggin.’
I s’ppose I’ll be baggin’ 
this take.
Nowt to fear: here’s the Year of the Snake.

Dawns the year of the Snake,
When each roue and rake
channels Samuel (“Jake”) 
F. B. Morse
and dons thaub of a sheik,
boils his Sal’sbury steak
and throws up, for Pete’s sake. 
(My! How coarse!)
(Hold your sneer: here’s the Year of the Horse.)

Dawns the Year of the Horse.
Must each child of divorce
to the island of Cors-
ica float...?
Yes, she must! (If she’s Norse,
sugar daddies, of course,
shall supply a sound source 
for her boat.)
Now we’re nearing the Year of the Goat.

Dawns the Year of the Goat.
Ev’ry grandee of note
Must remark (and I quote): 
“I’m a junkie!”
Whereupon each must troat
us his suicide note.
It’s as if each one wrote 
“Death: how funky!”
Dry that tear: here’s the Year of the Monkey.

Dawns the Year of the Monkey,
when girls who wax spunky –
like Elsa or Punky 
nee Brewster –
sleep with boys who look hunky,
whose pecs appear chunky.
Not one proves a flunky 
like Wooster.)
Let’s be clear: here’s the Year of the Rooster.

“Dawns the Year of the Rooster,"
sings Simon to Schuster.
“Tis time, sir, that you stir 
the grog.
All it needs is a booster,
the way good stuff us’d ter.”
Thereon, Carly loos'd her 
pet frog.
Let us veer towards the Year of the Dog.

Dawns the Year of the Dog,
when small shifts in typog-
raphy made on one’s blog 
show up big.
Yet, although I would flog
neither dead horse or hog,
the result is but smog. 
Do you dig...?
It appears here’s the Year of the Pig.

Dawns the Year of the Pig,
when folks claim how this gig
must fall flat and renege 
on its promise:
there’s the Joe who’s a prig,
those who don’t give a fig,
and one mean Mr. Big: 
Doubtful Thomas.
(Sorry: no years devoted to llamas.)

Measures for -(m)ay, Modified

A's an arch admiral: "Anchors aweigh!" 
B's Blue-foot Boobies b'yond Botany Bay.
C's the cute cove calling China 'Cathay.' 
D's a dress dummy dubb’d Daphne deLaye 
E edits Edna St. Vincent Millay. 
F's the fluke fat filling flounder filet.
G's Gorey's goatee gone gunmetal grey. 
H heralds Hallowmas hauntings. (Hearsay.)
I...? Is it Ireland's interr’d IRA...? 
J's just some junta: jerks 'jacking José.
K is a kaffir kid: KKK prey.
L is a love lyric. Last line...? "Lullay."
M is "Mid-morning..." by Manet Monet. 
N is a nickel. (Nets nada…? No way!) 
O's an odd ointment call’d "Oil of Ole!" 
P' is the piper poor peons must pay. 
Q is Quixote's inquisitive way.
R...? R is Roentgen. (Who re-named his ray…?) 
S is the Sphinx. (Speaks with Caesars, Shaw'd say.) 
T is a teapot: there’s two on Tante’s tray. 
U is the undead. (They're us. USA!) 
V...? V is‘void.' (For ‘avoid,’ add an ‘a.’ 
W’s Wizards. Will Wall walk away...? 
X...? X is'xebec.' (One 'x' but no 'k.') 
Y is a yacht. (Call’d a yawl yesterday.) 
Z is a zorse. (Zebu…? Zebra…? Zak...? May-...) 

Hommage a Ang: a Nonsense Crambo

Here lies the Taiwanese cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lie the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

How lie relations with Asians? Entangl’y,
because of the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the drone (at twelve stone, he looms gangl’y)
whose network's relations with Asians prove tangl'y,
who’s running the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the black op who lurks atop Langley
who weighs in at twelve stone and’s gruesome and gangl’y,
whose network’s relations with Asians prove tangl’y,
who’s running the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the nation whose policy’s angl’y,
which sponsors the black op who lurks atop Langley
who weighs in at twelve stone and’s gruesome and gangl’y,
whose network’s relations with Asians prove tangl’y,
who’s running the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the ruler whose soul’s turned meringuely,
who spearheads the nation whose polity’s angl’y,
which sponsors the black op who lurks atop Langley
who weighs in at twelve stone and’s gruesome and gangl’y,
whose network’s relations with Asians prove tangl’y,
who’s running the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee. 

Here lies the tale, told in accents Da Nangly,
which rants of the ruler whose soul’s turned meringuely,
who spearheads the nation whose polity’s angl’y,
which sponsors the black op who lurks atop Langley
who weighs in at twelve stone and’s gruesome and gangl’y,
whose network’s relations with Asians prove tangl’y,
who’s running the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here…? Lies!

Hommage a Arnold

The stang, in Oslo, measures stuff. 
At three-plus yards, it’s long enough.
The Gnats...? Just quiz the RAF: 
jet engine noise leaves flyboys deaf.
The Tangs are either “swigs in space” 
or kingdoms with a Chinese face.
The Tsang...? A province in Tibet 
where’s writ a Lhasan alphabet.
The gnats are tiny flying pests 
who put the bite on party guests.
'Beganst’'s abbreviated ‘‘ganst.’ 
(Don’t say thou say it can’t: thou canst.)
Your angst -- your deep, distressing dread -- 
won’t let you leave your Murphy bed.
A dead or dying spark’s a gnast. 
It's out...? They've snuff'd your flame at last.