You'd Chase Nice Views?

  
You'd chase nice views of northern lights? 

Aurora Borealphabet.

You'd waste one -- two? -- licentious nights? 

Explore the Bacchanalphabet.


An ABC with sage brush in its hair? 

Hi, Chaparralphabet!

An eighteenth-cent'ry-age salonnière 

you'd tap? De Staëlphabet.


Who’d brave an ABC with cheese 

needs taste test Ermanthaalphabet.

Who craves a futh of females? He's 

obsessed! (La Femme Fatal'phabet)


This ABC shows war is hell: ye

gads! Guadalcanalphabet!

View Abie's Seafood Smorgas/Deli? 

Say: “Kogod's Halalphabet.”


Armenian; Cyrillic; Greek?

In Internationalphabet.

A Montreal Québécois geek 

employs a joyful Joualphabet.


Where letters flourish under stress 

one finds Kilopascalphabet.

Where letters nourish one, repress-

sing calories? Lo-calphabet.


Where’s “Para toda mal y para toda bien!"? 

Mezcalphabet.*

This proto-ABC's from way-back-when: 

Neanderthalphabet.

     * The Mezcalphabet translates its motto as follows:

"Tis good when things are goin' great and good when

things are not first rate."


Its E's for 'Earp.' Its D's for 'Doc.' Its O's? 

OK Corralphabet.

"Outstanding...and they're mild..." -- 'cept up your nose: 

the vile Pall Mallphabet.


You favor glyphs o'er runes and letters? Quetzalcoatlphabet.

You savor stiffs who moon their betters? Have a go at Ralphabet!

For barnacles and salps...and oysters, too? Sublittoralphabet.

South Africans? Alas, there's but one choice for you: Transvaalphabet.



Type 'h, t, t, p, colon, double slash...' Get URLphabet.

If you love knights, round tables, singing swords, you’ll love the 'Val'phabet!

Mmm...mmm...an ABC in cans of Campbell's soup? Warholphabet.

Oh-oh! Another -- in Iran's "encounter group": Xalaalphabet.


In southern climes, y’all take yer time 'n' all...to drawl y’all’s Y'allphabet.

An ABC for Jerry, Izzy...all the Zals? The Zalphabet.

Dopplebuchstabenwortengedichten

     As you 
haul coals to Newcastle, 
might you, pour moi, 
     amass 
aardvarks to sell in 
Abel Beth Maacah...?*
     * The Hebrew Bible refers to the site
and a wise woman who lives there but makes 
no mention of a live animal market.  

     Be these 
t(hr)owers of babble...? 
Blame (sob!) my bum habit, 
     my 
culpa! But Boudreau’s* a 
borderline babbit!”
     * Abbie or Victor? The verses don't say.

Encore, Jorge Luis Borges! 
Cor de l'Argentine eez Jor: "Heez 
accidence enhances stories 
cached een Chechen Cacci'tores!"

     Once 
AM added Daddy-O,*
droll DJ, to my "rahd-i-o," 
     they 
proved: extending feelers 
yields emcees, instead of spielers.
     * Chicago radio personality 
Holmes Daylie (1920-2003)

Affairs of the fart felt in 
far-off terrains risk ripe 
redolence – and barely 
visible stains.

Giggl’ing, one Googles “three 
gaggles o' geese,” crying, 
"Larry* 'n' Sergey*: ple-e-ease 
leave me in peace!"
     * Larry Page and Servey Brin, 
founders of Google

     ‘High-
hat,’ ‘high-hand,’ ‘high-
horse,’ ‘high holy days...’ 
     'high-'…
HAH! (A case of 
“damn'd with tainted phrase”...?)

     In-
voking my μους-, I (non-
Greek) sue for news: “Ανδρα 
μαλαπολλ' εννεπα 
μοι…” 
     Show A-
chilles...? No! Showies 'n' 
tellies show Hellene Elle 
Ilii* (Helen of 
Troy).
     * Genitive singular of 'Ilium.'

     My me-
nage during haj during 
Raj (just for fun) 
     stanch'd my 
stutter: of "...jej-jej...jej-
june..." pals heard none.

    Don’t 
vote to tax Ni-
cola’s Delft or Spode. 
    Do 
kick Nic’s knickknacks' 
taxes down the road. 

     Aboard the 
good ship Lolly-
pop, all’s good. (Such 
sacch'rin smarm's the 
stuff of songs of 
Shirl's.) 
     Still, suckers: 
cease! Please stop such 
Sucker Suck-Ins! 
Sucking leaves o-
bese, balloon-like 
girls.

Your pharaoh dies, befriends my goat -- 
the pair grows fairly chummy. 
Then Nurse and Momma make a film: 
"The Nanny Meeps The Mummy."

A fool shall not for mongeese vouch, 
but cobras choose -- so odd, so...OUCH!

Dr...Sergeant...chili...pot... 
please stop! Put in more pepper...Not! 

     Quick! Go 
east on the Qarghaliq-
Qaraqum Trail:* 
     eat fair 
Bar-B-Q Coq...and great 
Bar-B-Q Quail.
     * The direction travelled -- more ENE -- 
between these two Chinese cuisine hotspots

All at sea in Seas Sargasso, 
sailors soon request a lasso. 
Sassafras's gas shall pass, 
but schlusselfiedels…? "Such a ass!"*
     * Pacé, Mr. Dickens. 

     Kitt's 
kit...? That pattern’s known as 
tattersall. 
     But 
I’ve left torn these knit togs -- 
tatters, all.

     I'd 
figured I'd bagg'd me a 
gnu, up until I'd looked 
under the fur and found 
you, Uncle Phil!

"Vav-vav-...vav...a vav-...va-v-...vavoom!" 
(Hear, hear, this stutter! But from whom...? 
'Tis Dr. D-cup, I presume -- 
she of the fabulous ba-zoom.)

     Would you know 
who...? 'Twas Woodrow 
Wilson's widow. 
Where...? Near Wicklow 
West. What...? Dead.
     Now...
when...? Which clews were 
found state Sunday. 
Whew! (We won't learn 
why.) How...? Bled.

Mix xanthoma with rosacea! 
What results...? A skin disease. 
It's what -- when six xiphopagi 
repaint the xerox room -- one sees.

To marry your mother 
so many years back...? 
My mistake (don't talk back!): 
blame my yackety yak!

     They sang 
"Zizzi-zizzi-...!" yesterday and 
"...boom-boom-aay!" today. 
     So: what 
song shall zyzzogetons* sing to-
morrow...? Hard to say.
     * The very last word, in South American 
leaf hoppers and in my pocket dictionary. (And
the near-to-last word in this doggerel.)

Meet the Mrses: An Alphabet

You must meet us Mrses. ‘Taint meet to miss us.
No Misses. Few Mses. But Mrses? Masses!
Meet Old Lady Moses. Wed Muses? Nine, sisses!
Meet Mickey’s mate Minnie. Here: grab two free passes.
Pa’s not on our list, though Pa's stepsister Tris is.
They’re Mrses all -- and all admir’ble lasses.

Meet Mrs. America, pregnant with twins.
As she’s six months along, she shows much more than chins.
Oh, she's packed on the pounds. And though someone else wins,
all recall Traci’s very original sins.

Will the real Mrs. Brown rise! (But which is it, please?

The first Brown raised a daughter. A second? Her knees.
A third proved unsinkable. One wore a crown,
while the last spelled her name with an ‘e’ – i.e., ‘Browne.’)

“Goodnight, Mrs. Cala-…” (Durante’s poor missus
makes do with adieus lobbed in lieu of Jim’s kisses,
as if she weren’t there) “…-bash, wherever you are.”
So: where is she? L.A.? UK? Ulaanbataar?)

Is today Mrs. Dalloway’s overdue do?
Hey! Let’s party! This hearty’s haut-hosted a few:
"The Voyage Out," “The New Dress,” and “A Summing Up,” too: 
seems a real stream-of-consciousness hullabaloo.

Mrs. Ed is a wife –
and a horse, too, of course.
(When one beats a dead source,
do allusions lose force?)

Meet Mrs. fforbes-Hamilton, pentangled gal.
You’ll ffind one ffiffth’s patrician, one ffiffth’s ffemme-ffatal.
ffurther, one ffiffth’s impov’rished, one ffiffth’s muck-a-muck.
Audrey’s ffiffth ffiffth? I ffoster not one fflying ff**k!

Remember Hume Cronyn’s wife, Jessica Tandy?
And who can forget Dagwood Bumstead’s wife, Blondie?
Recall, too, please, y'all, Al’s wife Peg – Mrs. Bundy.
Now, which of the three rhymes with Sri Mrs. Gandhi?

Meet Mrs. Hudson, Doyle’s landlady/queen.
She assures Sherlock’s boxers and socks stock’s pristine.
She sautes Sherlock’s sausages, serves Sherlock’s tea.
She’s one royal Doyle goil – at 221B. 

Meet Mrs. Ippi, wife of Ol’ Man River. Oscar Hammerstein,
for Broadway’s Tony-winning operetta Show Boat penned this line:
“O Ah gets weary…sick of tryin,’…tired of livin,’…skeered of dy’n”:
which works with Mrs. Ippi. (Not so well with Mrs. Nile or Rhine.) 

Mrs. Jesus, Mrs. Jones:
each hoards her hubby, make no bones!
One groom’s a cuckolded pariah,
one’s a counted-on messiah. 

Meet Mrs. Kurtz. Her husband’s dead.
Or so Pole Joseph Conrad said.
Surviving wives, though, must be fed.
(And left a husband’s third-best bed…?)

Mrs. Lovett? Gotta love it!
Censure? She’s deserving of it.
Cellar? Sweeney’s shop’s above it.
Todd’s bod? Furnace-wards she’ll shove it. 

Greer uplifts Mrs. Miniver’s grin-stiffened lips.
Greer unwinds as Bob Donat’s divine Mrs. Chips.
Greer winds up Mrs. Darcy per Jane Austin’s quips.
(Even acts as herself in some MGM clips.)

Meet the former Mrs. Nice Guy. She’s been granted a divorce
from her husband, Mr. Nice Guy, who's a proven ass de horse.
Should she hew a new beginning (it’s a crowded labor force)
or pursue the old profession post a brief refresher course?

Meet Mrs. O’Leary, die frau mitt der cow.
Cath’rine kicked off a hot time in Old Town -- and how!
Her tall tale's untrue, of course, hist’ry knows now.
Withal, charr'd, Chi “re-tarr'd.” So long, Ciao-cago. (Ow!)

Mrs. Parker; Mrs. Peel. Emma’s fiction; Dorothy’s real.
Emma’s essence? “M Appeal.” Dot’s? A tongue of tungsten steel.
Has either an Achilles’ heel? Sure: Mr. Parker; Mr. Peel. 

Meet Mrs. Quickly -- though female, a prick.
Selma’s shaken off slickly, and just in the nick. 

Meet Mrs. Robinson. Koo-koo-ka-choo.
(Simon and Garfunkel sing, so I do.)
Indiscreet Mrs. Robinson, vamp of her ‘hood.
(“Rhymin’” and Arthur sound sure, so I should.)
Back seat Mrs. Robinson. Hey, hey, hey, hey!
(Though it ain’t only “Joltin’” who’s moultin’ away.)
Obsolete Mrs. Robinson. God bless you, please!
(Have you heard? She’s interred with an ST Disease.)

Say “hello!” to Mrs. Simpson, also known as Marge.
With cyan’d locks and gravel’d vox, her sway at Fox is large.
She rules her Reich in Springfield like some latter-day La Farge.
She’s Homer’s gal-cum-femme-fatale – and totally in charge. 

Meet Mrs. Thatcher, Iron Girl,
whose bouff’s aloof from errant curl.
Brave ‘80s blokes gave Meg a whirl.
By ’90, folks were mopping hurl. 

Meet Mrs. Upson (her Christian name’s Doris)
a now-extinct species of genus Upsaurus
who loathes Auntie Mame. Her encephalon’s porous.
Her husband’s called Claude. He approximates Horus.
Her daughter, Miss Glory, was born under Taurus.
She’s anti-Semitic, occasioning tsoris.
(This verse in complete. What’s required for its chorus?
An index of rhymes and a larger thesaurus.) 

Meet Mrs. Van Winkle, whose ex-husband, Rip,
deeply vexed with her kvetching, bequeaths her the slip.
It’s implied Dame Van died. (Irving doesn’t know zip.)
So: who’s crewing that New Bedford factory ship?

Mrs. Warren’s profession? None older’s around.
Though not cricket, this ticket gets gals off the ground.
Mrs. W’s daughter, than Mother less wild,
turns out thank- (-ful and -less): she’s Shaw’s cutting-edge child. 

Meet Mrs. X (surname suppressed).
Her life’s complex, as you’ll have guessed.
She’d Nanny vex and prove a pest.
(We’ve Malcolm Little not addressed.)

Mrs. Yukimura, not unlike some last Mohican,
is an ages-old Kitsune keeping house in Hills of Beacon.
She’s of Japanese descent -- no, she is not some Puerto Rican.
(You’re so close to full disclosure; now is not the time to weaken.) 

To feel “the full catastrophe”
fulfilled, weds A his Mrs. Z.
Roars Zorba: “House and kids and wife:
That’s full catastrophe!” (Ah: life!)

Two Relatives

Great Aunt Tillie and The Lesser Aunt Tillie

Itinerary

Yesterday...? She shot chez Che. 
Today...? Chez Cher (Perchance chez Charo.)
"Shoots are so for shit," you say...? 
So: where shall she sashay tomorrow...?

Orbiting Io: Metathesis

On the day – Cinco de Mayo –
Maricopa I “-ver fly o-“
in my search for Joe Arpaio,

might I find my “-génes Dio-”? 

Ill-spelt ‘milq’ I’ll not “-ver cry o-,"
nor spilt tears from nymph “-be Nio-“
till Joe, masked, yells, “Silver, Hi-yo!”
as in tales told tall by Ngaio.

On MacDonald’s farm (e-e-e-i-o),
Ronald’s fuel is largely bio-.
As for Indians -- “-wa Kio-“?
All “force fled” to far Ohio.

Singing, "Why O Why O Why O 
did I ever leave -ming Wyo-?"
as you cry, "con Dios vayo,"
am I preaching to the "choio"?

G&S’s “-lanthe Io-“?
Best of Savoy’s “-ramas dio-.”
Still, why’d Messi (Who? “-nel Lio-“)
choke come Cup time? Me, oh, my-o!

Since my cable guy's from Fios,
I’m stuck writing more “-U I-Os,”
which enflames my “-rrhea pyo-.“
So, I'll just say “-nara sayo-!”