 |
Hair Shirt / 30" x 24" / Colored pencil on stressed manila paper
|
Poet Poe pens nonsense verse. "Plus...phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." Its gamut runs from spam to worse. The po'sy posted...? Poe's diverse -- most, postcards from his universe, replies to grudges he must nurse. My summary...? Let me be terse: a mitzva, mostly. (Not a curse.)
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Hair Shirt (colored pencil illustration)
"Captain Irv Le Smoler pulled, then capped, a nerveless molar..." De Loves o' Lady Mondegreen: A Constrained Nonsense Reggae
Captain Irv Le Smoler
pulled, then capped, a nerveless molar
of de Lady Mondegreen.
Dat gal den laid 'im on de green.
Doctor Juan Dufore Wiecks-Paigh
had docked her one to four week's pay.
Nex' day, de Lady Mondegreen,
impov'rish'd, laid ‘im on de green.
CDI Ronnie N. “Bjorn” Cooke,
seedy Iranian-born cook,
adored de Lady Mondegreen,
de gal what laid ‘im on de green.
Lord Al "Owen" Tudor-Welles
got low'r'd, alone, into de wells,
de wells o’ Lady Mondegreen,
de gal what laid 'im on de green!
pulled, then capped, a nerveless molar
of de Lady Mondegreen.
Dat gal den laid 'im on de green.
Doctor Juan Dufore Wiecks-Paigh
had docked her one to four week's pay.
Nex' day, de Lady Mondegreen,
impov'rish'd, laid ‘im on de green.
CDI Ronnie N. “Bjorn” Cooke,
seedy Iranian-born cook,
adored de Lady Mondegreen,
de gal what laid ‘im on de green.
Lord Al "Owen" Tudor-Welles
got low'r'd, alone, into de wells,
de wells o’ Lady Mondegreen,
de gal what laid 'im on de green!
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
"Q: Won't an age of anxiety sap all sobriety...?" The 'Of' Cliche as Q&A: A Constrained Nonsense Alphabet in Rhyme
Q: Won’t an age
of anxiety sap all sobriety?
A: Not if society
practices piety.
Q: Who would dare to say y'all ain’t the belle of the ball?
A: I know no one at all with the requisite gall.
Q: Why’s the cream of the crop rarely land at the top?
A: Though some may make that stop, most eventually drop.
Q: Is one foolish to wed on the Day of the Dead?
A: Nonsense! Somewhere I read: “Even stiffs scruples shed.”
Q: Looms the edge of the end just around yonder bend?
A: If so, heaven forefend: we’re in deep doodoo, friend.
Q: Knows the meaning of ‘poor' ev’ry father of four?
A: Yep! It’s budget’ry war keeping wolves from the door.
Q: Might great gaggles of geese pull the plug on world peace?
A: Sure, so text the police: “Make that ‘gak-gak-gak’ cease!”
Q: Do the Analects tell of the Harr’wing of Hell?
A: They do not. (Still, don’t yell: they Confucius treat well.)
Q: Can the Island of Io sustain, in its bayou (Hey! this ain't Ohio) a crane with one eye?
A: Oh.
Q: D’you suppose you could cram Mason jars of (say) jam into cyclotrons, ma’am?
A: Yes, if less than a dram.
Q: Might the King of the Khyber, with help from a “nighbor,” untangle this fiber?
A: Nope! King’s an imbiber.
Q: Should a pastoral band play my “Lay of the Land”?
A: Yes…unless they’re so-o-o-o-o bland that their bassist’s been canned.
Q: “Holy Mother of Mercy!” exclaimed Walker Percy. “What happened to Circe?
A: (She’d moved to New Jersey.)
Q: His query though haute is too short (and I quote): “What’s afloat in the moat?”
A: (Praise be! Nothing of note.)
Q: If her next oath of office she takes with a cough, thus: “A-h-h-h-hem!” – who’s pissed off? Us?
A: Let’s not board the Scoff Bus.
Q: Has Vern of Versailles earned his piece of the pie?
A: Sure. (And there but for “Why can’t the English?” go I.)
Q: Who’s Quixote of Queens?
A: Don’s that don, by all means, stashing billions of beans into taper-fit jeans.
Q: Which new rules of the road disallow being towed eating pie a la mode?
A: None in binary code.
Q: What think Freudian shrinks of the smile of the Sphinx?
A: Most draw psychical links to the fact that it drinks.
Q: Tell me: who takes the crown as the talk of the town?
A: Ethel Isadore Brown. She took nowt lying down.
Q: Why’s the U S of A always wind up this way?
A: Though I rue the cliché: ‘cuz its feet are of clay.
Q: Which – Vern's vat of Vouvray or my cage de au lait – contains vitamin K?
A: Neither, to both's dismay.
Q: Once the flags get unfurled, do the diatribes hurled leave one’s hair firmly curled?
A: ‘Tis the way of the world.
Q: Where’s the Xyst of Xi’an? Where’s the Yak of Yaiku? Where’s the Zorse of Zagreb.
A: In no typical zoo.
Q: Who would dare to say y'all ain’t the belle of the ball?
A: I know no one at all with the requisite gall.
Q: Why’s the cream of the crop rarely land at the top?
A: Though some may make that stop, most eventually drop.
Q: Is one foolish to wed on the Day of the Dead?
A: Nonsense! Somewhere I read: “Even stiffs scruples shed.”
Q: Looms the edge of the end just around yonder bend?
A: If so, heaven forefend: we’re in deep doodoo, friend.
Q: Knows the meaning of ‘poor' ev’ry father of four?
A: Yep! It’s budget’ry war keeping wolves from the door.
Q: Might great gaggles of geese pull the plug on world peace?
A: Sure, so text the police: “Make that ‘gak-gak-gak’ cease!”
Q: Do the Analects tell of the Harr’wing of Hell?
A: They do not. (Still, don’t yell: they Confucius treat well.)
Q: Can the Island of Io sustain, in its bayou (Hey! this ain't Ohio) a crane with one eye?
A: Oh.
Q: D’you suppose you could cram Mason jars of (say) jam into cyclotrons, ma’am?
A: Yes, if less than a dram.
Q: Might the King of the Khyber, with help from a “nighbor,” untangle this fiber?
A: Nope! King’s an imbiber.
Q: Should a pastoral band play my “Lay of the Land”?
A: Yes…unless they’re so-o-o-o-o bland that their bassist’s been canned.
Q: “Holy Mother of Mercy!” exclaimed Walker Percy. “What happened to Circe?
A: (She’d moved to New Jersey.)
Q: His query though haute is too short (and I quote): “What’s afloat in the moat?”
A: (Praise be! Nothing of note.)
Q: If her next oath of office she takes with a cough, thus: “A-h-h-h-hem!” – who’s pissed off? Us?
A: Let’s not board the Scoff Bus.
Q: Has Vern of Versailles earned his piece of the pie?
A: Sure. (And there but for “Why can’t the English?” go I.)
Q: Who’s Quixote of Queens?
A: Don’s that don, by all means, stashing billions of beans into taper-fit jeans.
Q: Which new rules of the road disallow being towed eating pie a la mode?
A: None in binary code.
Q: What think Freudian shrinks of the smile of the Sphinx?
A: Most draw psychical links to the fact that it drinks.
Q: Tell me: who takes the crown as the talk of the town?
A: Ethel Isadore Brown. She took nowt lying down.
Q: Why’s the U S of A always wind up this way?
A: Though I rue the cliché: ‘cuz its feet are of clay.
Q: Which – Vern's vat of Vouvray or my cage de au lait – contains vitamin K?
A: Neither, to both's dismay.
Q: Once the flags get unfurled, do the diatribes hurled leave one’s hair firmly curled?
A: ‘Tis the way of the world.
Q: Where’s the Xyst of Xi’an? Where’s the Yak of Yaiku? Where’s the Zorse of Zagreb.
A: In no typical zoo.
"'No Hint Has Clint'? Long out of print in Flint..." The Rain in Spain Constrain'd Yields Strains Insane: Nonsense Phonetic Exercises in Rhyme
TCM screened Pygmalion last night. The film version portrays more of the phonetic exercises Professor Higgins puts Miss Doolittle through than does the My Fair Lady musical version, though not enough. Not nearly enough.
"No Hint Has Clint"? Long out of print in Flint.
Their goal in Seoul? Control their ozone hole.
Who'd mull a scull through Dol?* Their chances? Null!
* Dol-de Bretagne, France
Hugh Grant's in Hants*, romancin' his great aunts.
* Short for Hampshire in the UK
The luge is huge in Bruges, not Baton Rouge.
My stays in Hays*? Unphased by Les Malaises.
* In Kansas
The snow at Meaux*? Aglow! (How apropos!)
* In France
In Gaul, their Wal-Mart's all of ten feet tall.
Sri Ram from Guam? A prominent imam.
It’s sad how bad the haddock tastes in Chad.
A push through Kush could smush my tender tush.
The myrrh from Ur's imperfect -- that's for sure.
You'll learn: in Cerne, they've furniture to burn.
The sleet in Crete? Replete with cream of wheat.
When snow in Stowe don’t show, you mustn't go.
Some jakes in Aix house snakes, for heaven sakes!
Men yearn in Berne to spurn the joint return.
Few males in Wales raise snails in painted pails.
Toulouse's Jews: abusive to Peru's?
The grease in Nice displeases Suisse police.
Who'd dance in France with pants-less Philo Vance?
Sid spit in Split, admitted it, and quit.
In Perth, they've earthy mirth -- for what it's worth.
Will hoi polloi in Troy employ no goy?
In Ghent, I lent some gent my last month's rent.
Which dome in Rome was home to Ethan Frome?
The sky o'er Rye* is dry. (I wonder why.)
* In New York
Pre-teens in Wien* are frequently unclean.
* Vienna, Austria
Locations beginning with these initials remain unaddressed: E I J L O Q V X Y Z
"No Hint Has Clint"? Long out of print in Flint.
Their goal in Seoul? Control their ozone hole.
Who'd mull a scull through Dol?* Their chances? Null!
* Dol-de Bretagne, France
Hugh Grant's in Hants*, romancin' his great aunts.
* Short for Hampshire in the UK
The luge is huge in Bruges, not Baton Rouge.
My stays in Hays*? Unphased by Les Malaises.
* In Kansas
The snow at Meaux*? Aglow! (How apropos!)
* In France
In Gaul, their Wal-Mart's all of ten feet tall.
Sri Ram from Guam? A prominent imam.
It’s sad how bad the haddock tastes in Chad.
A push through Kush could smush my tender tush.
The myrrh from Ur's imperfect -- that's for sure.
You'll learn: in Cerne, they've furniture to burn.
The sleet in Crete? Replete with cream of wheat.
When snow in Stowe don’t show, you mustn't go.
Some jakes in Aix house snakes, for heaven sakes!
Men yearn in Berne to spurn the joint return.
Few males in Wales raise snails in painted pails.
Toulouse's Jews: abusive to Peru's?
The grease in Nice displeases Suisse police.
Who'd dance in France with pants-less Philo Vance?
Sid spit in Split, admitted it, and quit.
In Perth, they've earthy mirth -- for what it's worth.
Will hoi polloi in Troy employ no goy?
In Ghent, I lent some gent my last month's rent.
Which dome in Rome was home to Ethan Frome?
The sky o'er Rye* is dry. (I wonder why.)
* In New York
Pre-teens in Wien* are frequently unclean.
* Vienna, Austria
Locations beginning with these initials remain unaddressed: E I J L O Q V X Y Z
Sunday, June 10, 2018
"Despot Dum and Despot Dee agreed to hold a summit..." Summitrio or The Fox & Friends' "Two Dictators" Fallout As Constrained Nonsense
I. Quick Study (pace Lewis Carroll)
Despot Dum
and Despot Dee
agreed to hold
a summit
'cuz desp'rate Dum's
approval nums
Dum daren't permit
to plummet.
Crows Dum, "Within
that first brief min,
if Dee's for real,
I'll feel it.
It's splinter'd, The
Peninsula:
trust ME! I've chi
to heal it."
II. Naming Rights
"Rocket Man v. Racket Man"
The NYT may name it.
"The See of Reds' Dictato Heads"
Fake News may choose to frame it.
"Summit Samba re: La Bomba":
Which Post won't defame it?
Whate'er the tag, will Drumpf not brag
that he, somehow, will game it?
III. Worst Case
"Some are called but few are chosen":
Jesus said it first.
"Summer cold? You're blue! You're frozen!":
Mother's scolding, versed.
"Summit call'd to feud o'er Chosun":
Dear! I fear the worst.
Despot Dum
and Despot Dee
agreed to hold
a summit
'cuz desp'rate Dum's
approval nums
Dum daren't permit
to plummet.
Crows Dum, "Within
that first brief min,
if Dee's for real,
I'll feel it.
It's splinter'd, The
Peninsula:
trust ME! I've chi
to heal it."
II. Naming Rights
"Rocket Man v. Racket Man"
The NYT may name it.
"The See of Reds' Dictato Heads"
Fake News may choose to frame it.
"Summit Samba re: La Bomba":
Which Post won't defame it?
Whate'er the tag, will Drumpf not brag
that he, somehow, will game it?
III. Worst Case
"Some are called but few are chosen":
Jesus said it first.
"Summer cold? You're blue! You're frozen!":
Mother's scolding, versed.
"Summit call'd to feud o'er Chosun":
Dear! I fear the worst.
"You've read, in blogs, of superdogs (remember Rin Tin Tin?)..." The Rise and Fall of the Ant o' Nin: A Constrained "Nin"sense in Rhyme
You've read, in
blogs, of superdogs
(remember Rin Tin Tin?),
of supergirls and superwogs
(think Kipling’s “Din! Din! Din!”),
of supermen and superflies
(You've not? Where have you been?).
Now read the tale of superjudge:
the awful Ant o’ Nin!
Although ‘Scalia’ was the name
by which he’d thought to tame
the tsetses of judicial fame,
he Ant o’ Nin became.
From Nin he hailed. From Nin he bailed:
“I’ll never live with Ninnies!”
(Quite normal, this: Ant’s norm’s to dis
all gypsys, gooks and guineas.)
Though born of men, he morphosed when,
a callow wen of three,
he’s bitten by Formicidae
on whom he tried to pee.
(remember Rin Tin Tin?),
of supergirls and superwogs
(think Kipling’s “Din! Din! Din!”),
of supermen and superflies
(You've not? Where have you been?).
Now read the tale of superjudge:
the awful Ant o’ Nin!
Although ‘Scalia’ was the name
by which he’d thought to tame
the tsetses of judicial fame,
he Ant o’ Nin became.
From Nin he hailed. From Nin he bailed:
“I’ll never live with Ninnies!”
(Quite normal, this: Ant’s norm’s to dis
all gypsys, gooks and guineas.)
Though born of men, he morphosed when,
a callow wen of three,
he’s bitten by Formicidae
on whom he tried to pee.
[To be continued]
Saturday, June 9, 2018
"The road ahead? Un-landmarked, lanes unlined..." On the Road Ahead: Forty Four Kerouwhacky Iambic Pentameters in Rhyme
The road ahead?
Un-landmarked, lanes unlined.
No forks to
sort, no crosswalks to be cross'd.
The scene ahead? Selfsame as seen behind.
The net, ol' chaps? I'll bet, like saps, we’re lost.
The road ahead: avoids it Dante’s wood?
By Beatrice we’d opt to not be boss’d.
(You'd hate that Hades tour: you know you would.)
The road stills/quells/kills hell’s belles. Still, we’re lost.
The road ahead’s paved not with brickwork yellow.
No airborne witch-launch'd chimps us wimps accost.
And while the Wiz proves but some flighty fellow,
he exits by the high road. We stay lost.
The road ahead’s perhaps one best not taken.
Should stand we frozen here on hearing Frost,
reduced to indecision, spook'd and shaken?
No matter how this all shakes out, we’re lost.
Suppose the road’s a via dolorosa.
We’d tread it not, withal Our Savior dost.
As our (of course not His) stravaging goes a-
stray, who’s to say, “Oy vey! Ecce: we’re lost.”
The road, if it’s like Zampano’s la strada,
once trekk'd, shall prove a torment, tempest-tossed,
and we, along that road, might (yadda-yadda,
and yadda-yadda!) Long tale short: we’re lost.
The road ahead’s no railroad underground
whereby one finds one’s way despite all cost.
The world today’s post-racial, I’ll be bound:
What’s lost’s now found – though what’s found’s eas’ly lost.
The road leads not to Singapore or Bali.
The crypts of Bing and Bob? Long wreath'd and joss’d.
More’s needed than to forth toward remakes sally
to find what in the cutting room gets lost.
The road ahead runs not to Mandalay.
Such journeys would our stamina exhaust.
(A trip to Terabithia’s okay.
Result of either trek, however? Lost!)
Suppose the road’s emboss'd, or long and winding.
Suppose it’s gloss'd, awash in Buddhas sauc'd.
Might reading On the Road supply some finding
(e.g., “Sal rarely brushed; Dean never flossed.”)…
…to help us spot the landmark or the line
(such stuff’s required when booties hit the ground)
which helps each road ahead turn out just fine,
and, though, sometimes, though lost, we’re – fin’lly – found?
The scene ahead? Selfsame as seen behind.
The net, ol' chaps? I'll bet, like saps, we’re lost.
The road ahead: avoids it Dante’s wood?
By Beatrice we’d opt to not be boss’d.
(You'd hate that Hades tour: you know you would.)
The road stills/quells/kills hell’s belles. Still, we’re lost.
The road ahead’s paved not with brickwork yellow.
No airborne witch-launch'd chimps us wimps accost.
And while the Wiz proves but some flighty fellow,
he exits by the high road. We stay lost.
The road ahead’s perhaps one best not taken.
Should stand we frozen here on hearing Frost,
reduced to indecision, spook'd and shaken?
No matter how this all shakes out, we’re lost.
Suppose the road’s a via dolorosa.
We’d tread it not, withal Our Savior dost.
As our (of course not His) stravaging goes a-
stray, who’s to say, “Oy vey! Ecce: we’re lost.”
The road, if it’s like Zampano’s la strada,
once trekk'd, shall prove a torment, tempest-tossed,
and we, along that road, might (yadda-yadda,
and yadda-yadda!) Long tale short: we’re lost.
The road ahead’s no railroad underground
whereby one finds one’s way despite all cost.
The world today’s post-racial, I’ll be bound:
What’s lost’s now found – though what’s found’s eas’ly lost.
The road leads not to Singapore or Bali.
The crypts of Bing and Bob? Long wreath'd and joss’d.
More’s needed than to forth toward remakes sally
to find what in the cutting room gets lost.
The road ahead runs not to Mandalay.
Such journeys would our stamina exhaust.
(A trip to Terabithia’s okay.
Result of either trek, however? Lost!)
Suppose the road’s emboss'd, or long and winding.
Suppose it’s gloss'd, awash in Buddhas sauc'd.
Might reading On the Road supply some finding
(e.g., “Sal rarely brushed; Dean never flossed.”)…
…to help us spot the landmark or the line
(such stuff’s required when booties hit the ground)
which helps each road ahead turn out just fine,
and, though, sometimes, though lost, we’re – fin’lly – found?
Friday, June 8, 2018
"So: they crucified the Nazarene. They wrapped Him in a shroud..." The Shroud of Turin & Other Constrained Spoonerisms
So: they crucified the Nazarene.
They wrapped Him in a shroud,
whereon's now seen His face, His mien.
"How keen!" Pope Paul allow’d.
(It's called The Shroud of Turin
and it always draws a crowd.)
When I'm show'rin' after hoops,
'n' entrail urgency's occurrin,'
to abandon tub for toilet
is one journey I'm deferrin.'
(It's called The Turd of Show’rin.'
There it sits, amidst my urine.)
Coming soon:
The Star of Bethlehem and The Bar of Shtetl Mem
They wrapped Him in a shroud,
whereon's now seen His face, His mien.
"How keen!" Pope Paul allow’d.
(It's called The Shroud of Turin
and it always draws a crowd.)
When I'm show'rin' after hoops,
'n' entrail urgency's occurrin,'
to abandon tub for toilet
is one journey I'm deferrin.'
(It's called The Turd of Show’rin.'
There it sits, amidst my urine.)
Coming soon:
The Star of Bethlehem and The Bar of Shtetl Mem
Thursday, June 7, 2018
"White Album: Beatles' escapade. White belt: karate, freshman grade..." The White Stuff: A Constrained Nonsense Alphabet in Rhyme
White Album:
Beatles’ escapade. White belt:
karate, freshman grade.
White Castle: burgers by the bag. White dwarf: small star whose heat will flag.
White elephant: beware of mauling. White Fang: hears the Wild a-calling.
White gold: holds trace manganese. White House: The Donald keeps the keys.
White ink: on onion skin? Bizarre! White joke: “Three honkies hit a bar…”
White knight: his song’s called “Ways and Means.” White lies: when KKK convenes.
White Man’s: that burden’s best laid down. White noise: comes, too, in pink and brown.
Wite-Out: it holds one letter less. White pages: show they your address?
White Queen: in Carroll and in chess. White Rhino: ganja, more or less.
Black Sox: ’19, Comiskey Park. White tiger: threatened. (Think ‘white shark.’)
White unicorn: a mythic beast. White Velvet (cake): Take two pans, greased…
Whitewater: nearly sunk Slick Will. White xenia: soft coral frill.
White yam: it’s class'd D. rotundata. White Zin? Was rosé; now, not a…
White Castle: burgers by the bag. White dwarf: small star whose heat will flag.
White elephant: beware of mauling. White Fang: hears the Wild a-calling.
White gold: holds trace manganese. White House: The Donald keeps the keys.
White ink: on onion skin? Bizarre! White joke: “Three honkies hit a bar…”
White knight: his song’s called “Ways and Means.” White lies: when KKK convenes.
White Man’s: that burden’s best laid down. White noise: comes, too, in pink and brown.
Wite-Out: it holds one letter less. White pages: show they your address?
White Queen: in Carroll and in chess. White Rhino: ganja, more or less.
Black Sox: ’19, Comiskey Park. White tiger: threatened. (Think ‘white shark.’)
White unicorn: a mythic beast. White Velvet (cake): Take two pans, greased…
Whitewater: nearly sunk Slick Will. White xenia: soft coral frill.
White yam: it’s class'd D. rotundata. White Zin? Was rosé; now, not a…
"I now know (that's something new) that she now knows (yes, he knows, too)..." 'Cognoscere' Conjugational: A Constrained Nonsense in Rhyme
I now know
(that’s something new)
that she now knows
(yes, he knows, too)
that we now know
(as knows my gnu)
that they now know --
as so do you.
Your crew now knows –
of course you do --
that it now knows.
(Is ‘it’ a ‘who’?)
Now, lest is risked
more déjà vu,
this conjugational's
through, nu?
(that’s something new)
that she now knows
(yes, he knows, too)
that we now know
(as knows my gnu)
that they now know --
as so do you.
Your crew now knows –
of course you do --
that it now knows.
(Is ‘it’ a ‘who’?)
Now, lest is risked
more déjà vu,
this conjugational's
through, nu?
"About Athos and Porthos and Aramis: aren't they like bagels and cream cheese and lox...?" Threenody or Triumvirates, Triviragos and Trissentials: A Constrained Nonsense
Part I (in six parts)
About Athos and Porthos and Aramis:
aren’t they like
bagels and cream cheese and lox...?
Are they so unlike
Balthazar, Gaspar and Melchior:
three nifty gifts, one triangular box...?
About Curly and Larry and Moe
(two are look-alike
Howards while one's merely Fine):
are they so unlike
Dewey and Cheatham and Howe:
each a trio con brio, each top of the line...?
About Eeny and Meeny and Miney (so many
bemoan now how Moe’s now “no mo’”):
Are they so unlike
Ferris and Cam’ron and Sloane,
not to mention
Manet, Klee and Vincent van Gogh...?
About Groucho and Harpo and Chico:
are they not like
gravy and bangers and mash...?
Are they not like
Hermi’ne and Harry and Ron, not to mention
Doc Zarkov and Arden and Flash...?
About Ignatz and Krazy and Offissa Pupp,
who’re like
lettuce, tomato and bacon,
who’re not unlike
Jesus and Mary and Joseph: on toast
or en host, either’s Jake to partake in.
About Kukla and Frances and Ollie:
are they not like
Kellogg’s Snap, Crackl' 'n' Pop...?
Are they so unlike
Lamia, Laida and Flora...? (Perhaps
now’s the opportune moment to stop.)
About Athos and Porthos and Aramis:
aren’t they like
bagels and cream cheese and lox...?
Are they so unlike
Balthazar, Gaspar and Melchior:
three nifty gifts, one triangular box...?
About Curly and Larry and Moe
(two are look-alike
Howards while one's merely Fine):
are they so unlike
Dewey and Cheatham and Howe:
each a trio con brio, each top of the line...?
About Eeny and Meeny and Miney (so many
bemoan now how Moe’s now “no mo’”):
Are they so unlike
Ferris and Cam’ron and Sloane,
not to mention
Manet, Klee and Vincent van Gogh...?
About Groucho and Harpo and Chico:
are they not like
gravy and bangers and mash...?
Are they not like
Hermi’ne and Harry and Ron, not to mention
Doc Zarkov and Arden and Flash...?
About Ignatz and Krazy and Offissa Pupp,
who’re like
lettuce, tomato and bacon,
who’re not unlike
Jesus and Mary and Joseph: on toast
or en host, either’s Jake to partake in.
About Kukla and Frances and Ollie:
are they not like
Kellogg’s Snap, Crackl' 'n' Pop...?
Are they so unlike
Lamia, Laida and Flora...? (Perhaps
now’s the opportune moment to stop.)
End of Part I
Part II (in five parts)
About lions and tigers and bears (oh my!):
aren’t they like
Scarecrow and Tin Man and Cowardly...?
Aren’t they like
Minnie and Mabel and Maude...?
(I refuse to revisit the Stooges, Moe Howardly.)
About Mavericks -- Bret, Bart and Beau:
are they so unlike
Pep Boys – Jack, Manny and Moe –
who’re so like three solfeggi (i.e., mi, re, do)
which are not unlike
traffic lights -- ‘stop,’ ‘wait’ and ‘go’...?
Aren’t Nairobis – say, Lemmon
and Loden and Lauer –
like solids and liquids and gas...?
Are they so unlike
Michaelmas, Easter and Lent...?
Are they so unlike threepeats...?
You bet your sweet ass!
About Oscar and Johnny and Nat:
are they so unlike
fiddlers and pipes and a bowl...?
(Bet your boots they are:
one three’s the Nat “King” Cole Trio.
The other three...? Call'd for by merry King Cole.)
About Peter and Mary and Paul:
are they so unlike
Patty, Maxene and LaVerne,
who are like Pavarotti, Domingo and
“that other guy.”
(Grant me more – ten! -- before we adjourn.)
End of Part II
Part III (in four parts)
About quidam and quaedam and quoddam:
are they not like
Emily, Charlotte and Anne...?
Are they so unlike
Rs -- Readin,’ ‘Ritin,’ and ‘Rithmetic –
quite like the number of Ks in the Klan...?
About Francis and Sammy and Dean...?
Are they so unlike
souses and soakers and sots...?
Are they not the “Chance,
Evers and Tinker”s of profligate drinkers...?
(In short, don’t they guzzle a lot...?)
Aren’t the Ugly, the Good and the Bad
not unlike carbohydrate
and protein and fat, which are not unlike
“Veni” and “Vidi” and “Vici” –
and much like Cornwallis's tricornered hat...?
About Wynken and Blynken and Nod:
are they not like the
Santa Maria, the Niña
(as well as the Pinta) and quite like
the Three Penny Op’ra which
starr'd the superb Lotte Lenya...?
End of Part III
Coda (in three parts)
About Xena and Gaby and Joxer:
are they not like
Preakness and Belmont and Derby...? ]
Aren’t they like the
dudes in those flickers – e.g., City Slickers –
Bill Crystal, Dan Stern, Bruno Kirby...?
About Yoshi, Luigi and Mario:
aren’t they like
Bones (three!) in humanoid ears...?
Are they not like
those days – lazy, hazy and crazy –
Nat sings of, with sodas and pretzels
and beers...?
About Zoey and Lola and Quinn:
are they so unlike
countrymen, Romans and friends....?
Are they not like
three pigs, three French hens,
and three sheets to the wind...?
(Thus with three threes my “three”nody ends.)
Part II (in five parts)
About lions and tigers and bears (oh my!):
aren’t they like
Scarecrow and Tin Man and Cowardly...?
Aren’t they like
Minnie and Mabel and Maude...?
(I refuse to revisit the Stooges, Moe Howardly.)
About Mavericks -- Bret, Bart and Beau:
are they so unlike
Pep Boys – Jack, Manny and Moe –
who’re so like three solfeggi (i.e., mi, re, do)
which are not unlike
traffic lights -- ‘stop,’ ‘wait’ and ‘go’...?
Aren’t Nairobis – say, Lemmon
and Loden and Lauer –
like solids and liquids and gas...?
Are they so unlike
Michaelmas, Easter and Lent...?
Are they so unlike threepeats...?
You bet your sweet ass!
About Oscar and Johnny and Nat:
are they so unlike
fiddlers and pipes and a bowl...?
(Bet your boots they are:
one three’s the Nat “King” Cole Trio.
The other three...? Call'd for by merry King Cole.)
About Peter and Mary and Paul:
are they so unlike
Patty, Maxene and LaVerne,
who are like Pavarotti, Domingo and
“that other guy.”
(Grant me more – ten! -- before we adjourn.)
End of Part II
Part III (in four parts)
About quidam and quaedam and quoddam:
are they not like
Emily, Charlotte and Anne...?
Are they so unlike
Rs -- Readin,’ ‘Ritin,’ and ‘Rithmetic –
quite like the number of Ks in the Klan...?
About Francis and Sammy and Dean...?
Are they so unlike
souses and soakers and sots...?
Are they not the “Chance,
Evers and Tinker”s of profligate drinkers...?
(In short, don’t they guzzle a lot...?)
Aren’t the Ugly, the Good and the Bad
not unlike carbohydrate
and protein and fat, which are not unlike
“Veni” and “Vidi” and “Vici” –
and much like Cornwallis's tricornered hat...?
About Wynken and Blynken and Nod:
are they not like the
Santa Maria, the Niña
(as well as the Pinta) and quite like
the Three Penny Op’ra which
starr'd the superb Lotte Lenya...?
End of Part III
Coda (in three parts)
About Xena and Gaby and Joxer:
are they not like
Preakness and Belmont and Derby...? ]
Aren’t they like the
dudes in those flickers – e.g., City Slickers –
Bill Crystal, Dan Stern, Bruno Kirby...?
About Yoshi, Luigi and Mario:
aren’t they like
Bones (three!) in humanoid ears...?
Are they not like
those days – lazy, hazy and crazy –
Nat sings of, with sodas and pretzels
and beers...?
About Zoey and Lola and Quinn:
are they so unlike
countrymen, Romans and friends....?
Are they not like
three pigs, three French hens,
and three sheets to the wind...?
(Thus with three threes my “three”nody ends.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)