A’s for the
ape. Ray crept – caped! -- down the
drape,
consummated his
caper, then made his escape.
Abnegating the
grape, Ray'd been staying in shape.
Mapes, the
gatekeeper, videotaped it (Ray's jape).
B’s for the
beard. Crime career nearly queered,
Pier, as
feared, engineered it (a shear of his beard).
Dierdre sneered
as the austere Pier – sheared – reappeared.
Cheerless Kier,
leering, jeered, “Dear, dear: seriously weird!”
C’s for the
child I’d misfiled under ‘mild’
whom unreconciled
psychics reviled as beguiled.
“For awhile, Pyle’d not smiled,” sighed Childe Harold de Wylde
(Since Pyle
died, Childe’s decided, “Pyle’s piles had been filed!”)
D’s for one
drowned whom a flounderman’s brown hound
found – crowned
and aground -- in Quowtown’s renowned sound.
Zounds! The thousands of pounds Browne found
‘round ‘bout Xaone Mound
helped bring
down the clown’s fun’ral expense, I’ll be bound.
E’s for the
earl (christened Burl) whom rur’al churl Cyr’l
found curled up
in church tarted up like “Merle’s Girl.”
Surly Burl’s
curls, unfurled, skirled like mother-of-pearl,
while their
twirling purged Fleurwell: Sir Fleur sure did hurl!
F’s for the
furs. Coeur’s chauffeur, Merce, avers
he o’erheard
her assure the Third Curate of Tours
how hers were from Sir Herb. It occurs
terce Merce errs:
hers Coeur lured from the Kurtzes, curt
restauranteurs.
G’s for the
goat “table d’hote”ing the note
haute Lord Mortimer wrote before g’rotting Dot’s throat.
Said note read,
and I quote: “I vote no more to tote
what’s verboten: (signed) Mo’t.” (Also missing:
Mo’t’s coat.)
H? For the hand
–tanned – Rand scanned from the grandstand,
commanding the
handbag with nine-hundred grand.
That damn dandy
ha’n’t planned to abandon Dan’s van.
Man! That had to be Sandor: I’d branded that hand!
I’s for the imp
“mite ein grin und ein gimp.”
He’s the pimply lipped pimp whose chimp’s
pinching Jim’s shrimp.
Sift your usual
suspects: walks one with a limp?
I’m convinced Sgt.
Blymp: you’re a dimwitted simp.
J’s for the
jam, ma’am, a ton if a gram!
That’s what jammed our li’l femme – Grammy Graham’s wee lamb.
Pam got
flattened – ker-blam! – lying crammed
in her pram.
(The damn’d
monster responsible’s still on the lamb.)
K’s for the
king. Rex reported last Spring
how he’d
“misplaced” his ring after dinging the thing.
Bling’s since
turned up – ka-ching! – on some
pawnbroker’s wing.
Who’ll lay odds
Major Klahdz gets His Highness to sing?
L’s for the leg
which the pregnant nun Meg
mused she’d
used to seduce Reggie Weggman, a yegg.
Check these
negs! Far from vague: Sister Meg’s leg’s a peg!
Oui…ze omelet, she begs pour
ze break of ze egg.
M’s for the
moon. (En Francais, c’est “la lune.”)
It our shrewd
Sioux “assumes” loomed, balloon-like, last June –
then impugnes
me “le fool” and “le clueless baboon.”
Well, ‘twas prune-black that night, Chief. No moon rose till noon.
N’s for the net
Vet Bette lets on she set
To prevent Annette’s
marmoset wrecking her fete.
Yet Bette’s net
went unset. Let me bet: ‘Nette’s pet met
with “a fate
wois’ than deat’”: Josette’s deft bayonet.
O’s for the oar
with which whoremonger Thor
swore he “sawr”
Senor D’Or, ‘board the S. S. Lahore,
floor the War
Commodore, mooring Moore at Death’s door.
Place no store
in Thor’s story: D’Or’s oar was on shore.
P’s for the pit
where li’l Whitney DeWitt
has insisted
he’s seen Hittite hieroglyphs writ.
I submit whit’s
a git. Quit the shit! Pit's unlit!
Blacker (more
than a bit) than an blackamoor's tit.
Q’s for the
quince bit by Vince, once a prince,
as he clipped
mezzotints from Flint’s Septuagints.
Yet this dish
evinced hints: a mint set of his prints.
(Plus – don’t wince! – Vince has since failed to
floss or to rinse.)
R’s for the
rain Kane claims o’erflowed the drain,
thus effacing
the stain tainting Jane’s counterpane.
That Ranier
wasn’t slain’s now insane to maintain.
Still,
no-brainers (like, “Were Wayne’s chains feined, Zane?) remain.
S? For the scream
oral testaments seem
to reveal was
unreal: the accused “had a dream.”
Yet that scream
was no dream, just one seam in Bea’s scheme,
lest Rhee’s
semen be seen on Leigh’s lychee ice cream.
T’s for the
twins, distant kin of the Quinns,
two whose
winning grins misevince sinister sins.
Yes, they did
Timmons in, in implanting pink pins,
dipped in
thinned carotene, in their victims thin shins.
U’s for the urn
Verne, Sir Ernest’s nurse, learned
could depart
and return when Verne twirled Miss Hearn’s fern.
There the
taciturn Dern hid the undiscerned quern
he’d soon turn
on the burned stern of Journeyman Byrne.
V’s for the
vase where the Bishop of Thrace
placed his mace.
Oh, Your Grace: what an ace hiding place!
After Matins,
Bish flattens his archbishop’s face.
(Google “U is
for urn” for a similar case.)
W’s wire
required by Meyer.
Prior Dreyer
hired Meyer (“The Highflyin’ Friar”)
to walk the
tightwire, then to set it afire.
Meyer tried...but expired in the choir. How dire!
X? For the ‘xi
Tee decoded as ‘phi,’
casting guilt
for Dee’s thievery spree on Wang Lee.
‘Neath Bea’s
third degree, Tee conceded the ‘xi.”
Now the digit
of guilt seems to indicate…me.
Y’s for the
yair where the charge d’affaire
shares, with
devil-may-care heiress Sarah’s au pair
an éclair – then,
like Earhart, melts into thin air.
(As, I swear,
has fair Sarah. Say…has she an heir?
Z’s for the zoo
where Druse Hugh’s clueless coups
slew two ewes,
stewed two shrews, abused caribous, too,
chewed out
kangaroos, cockatoos. Killer bees? Few!
But those few
Hugh’s confused crew let loose in the loo.
