Protest Chants for 2020

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
His neckties still hang wa-a-a-ay too low.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
His BFF’s our Russian foe.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
He doesn’t know he doesn’t know.
(Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
Is that stuff hair…or oleo?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

Did he once host a TV show?
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
Why’s he behave like Putin’s ‘ho’?
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
He brags, “I’m rich!” So: where’s the dough?
(Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
Is that hair…or a UFO?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

He claims he speaks for Av’rage Joe.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
How much back tax does this crook owe?
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
His plan? Home-grown Guantanamo.
(Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
His hair…or an Antarctic floe?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

His tweets elicit vertigo.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
He started lying lo-o-o-ong ago.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
Folks hoped he’d change; folks hoped he’d grow.
(Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
His hair…or neighbor's yellow snow?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

Some thought he’d shake up status quo.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
But he’s a fake, so did he? No!
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
He’s big on braggadocio.
(Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
Is that stuff hair or stale gateau?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

He plumps for Wade; he dumps on Roe.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
Mysogyny he won’t outgrow.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho! 
He grabs ‘em by their…what…? Hello!
(Hey, hey! Ho, ho! 
Is that hair…or an embryo?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

“He’s psycho,” writes Politico.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
Just call him ‘Gen’ralissimo.’
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
He “governs” with his kids in tow.
(Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
Is that his hair. we just don’t know.)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

He calls himself a CEO.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
His bus’ness model’s quid pro quo.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
His government’s a TV show.
Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
You still would vote for him…? Oh, no!!

Dump Him ABC

Assassinate him! Bump him off! Crucify him! (Who would scoff?)
Drag 'n' drop him! Eighty-six him! Finishing him off’ll fix him.
Guillotine him! Hang 'im high! Immolate the frickin’ guy!
Jettison him down your loo! Knock his block off! Lynch him, too!
Massacre him! Neutralize him! Off him! (Death might quitel surprise him.)
Polish off his dumb ass? Do! Quarter him! (Then draw him, too!)
Rub him out and Suffocate him! Breathes he still? Then Terminate him!
If he still won’t die, Undo him! Vaporize him! (In short, screw him.)
Whack him! eXecute his ass! Yank his breathing tube: he’ll pass.
Zap him with your taser gun: 'Twill prove a boon...and so-o-o-o much fun.  

I Can't Get Past That Hair

Hey, Gotham Town:
who's trickling down
that up- and down-
ward stair?
Despite his myth,
he's short on pith.
(And what’s it with
that hair?)

The umpteenth time

he blusters, “I’m
a bigly bil-
lionaire!”
I beg him, “Bro,
just let it go!”
(Be that a ‘fro…
that hair?)

He pouts, “I plan

a Muslim ban.”
(Most muse, “He can-
not dare.”)
Perhaps he’ll stew
and think it through.
(And then shampoo 
that hair...?)

His twitter feed’s

‘mysogyny’d.’
Chauvin? Indeed: 
he's there.
Perhaps he can’t
control his rant.
(A plug implant…
that hair?)

Of tax returns

a show he spurns.
(He never learns
to share.)
The man is ill,
a psycho. (Still…
that’s one weird hill…
that hair.)

He's “crim’nally

uncurious,” Mark
Shields reveals
on air.
Perhaps he is
(though that’s his biz).
(Do stylists frizz 
that hair?)

Gals grabs he (gads!)

by p words -- adds,
“they let you, lads,
nor care.”
Does ‘Vanka blink?
Does ‘Vanka wink?
(Does ‘Vanka think
that’s hair?)

The handicapp'd

he mock'd. Rubes clapp'd.
And Congress napp'd. 
'Tain't fair.
“I never did!
Me? God forbid!”
(The man's pure id...
with hair.)

Him? Navigate

the ship of state?
We’ll all catch hate-
de-mer.
He lacks the skill
for steering. (Still,
I’m in…until
that hair.)

Into each room

he roams? Ka-boom!
He sucks up --zoom! -- 
all air.
Narcissus-like
he grabs the mic.
(Do people like
that hair?)

Who sang at Don’s

inaug’ral? B'yon-
ce? Bono? John?
Not Cher!
No stars came out.
‘Twas all about
(no doubt) his sprout
of hair.)

In thrall to lies,

he falsifies.
He fails at Truth
or Dare.
His fibs and guiles
extend…for miles.
(Who reconciles
that hair?)

He made a vow

to disallow
Barack’s Oba-
macare.
Perhaps he will.
(Most hope not.) Still…
I’ve had my fill
of Herr.

He now eschews

grand South Lawn views,
prefers to choose
his lair.
At Mar-a-Lago stay! 
Okay? (Say…
is that hay
or hair?)

His border wall?

In dead free fall.
(He specs expects 
to pare.)
Claims he: “Some folks 
don’t get my jokes.”
(Then Fallon pokes 
that hair.)

The Press? It’s dead:

He tweets instead.
The man’s one head- 
case rare,
each twitter feed
a bitter screed.
(He is, indeed,
all hair.)

To pay his lend-
ers? God forfend! 
Here’s him: Zut! C’est

la guerre!”
Then writes ‘em off.
Then cheats…at golf!  
(Still…what God-awf-
ul hair!)

Attache’s ears

attack'd? State fear’s
that Cuba spears 
their share.
Did foreign thugs
deploy those bugs?
(Ill-fitting rugs
ain’t hair.)

Aside from ISIS -- 

still a crisis -- 
name one vice he'd 
pare?
Prescription drugs?
“Quite bad,” he shrugs.
(Hey! Are those plugs…
in there?)

So: will this worm 

serve out his term?
Will White House germs
he bear?
His overreach
incites “Impeach!”
(When does he bleach
that hair?)

Perhaps he’ll die

in office. I
to heaven ply
that prayer.
I do believe
that’s how he’ll leave.
(Is that a weave…
that hair?)

So: what's the poop?

A wig? A toup?
What’s goin’ on
up there?
Still, notwithstanding
all his lies,
the made-up guff
that liar plies,
despite the hates 
each tweet creates,
the myths with which
his base he baits,
although the cat’s
an autocrat
(and certainly 
no diplomat) 
and yet, in spite
of all of that,
I can’t get past
that hair…I still

cannot get past

that hair!

Material Boy or Impermanent Prez

I'd celebrate four heads of state
as metaphoric cloth.
Material determines fate:
two mild, one wild, one wroth.
George Washantung can’t tell a lie.
Abe Linen frees the slaves.
Mohairy Truman stops the buck.
Tick Nixon misbehaves.

The current Potus makes stuff up –

from whole cloth, as it were --
abrasive as an em’ry cloth,
offensive as fox’d fur.
Seems he's the stuff of fabric, too.
He claims he’s cloth of gold.
I see him Spandex-shrouded.
Wrapp’d cadaver-like. Ice cold. 

This Morning's Anagram

'Drumpf' misspell'd reads 'Dr. Fump.'
(What sort of dudes dream this stuff up?)
I spied him on a big rig's* bump-
er sticker. (In a red state? Yup!)

When re-rearranged, he's 'Mr. Pfud,'
with shades of Bugs's nemesis.
However spell'd, he's such a dud.
I wish he'd quit the premises.

* Some late mss show 'trailer's' here. 
Others show 'RV's.' All are palimpsests.
What varia have you run across? 

One Further Tercet I'm Thoroughly Sure(cet) Has Never Been Written Till Now: More Nonsense in Meters & Rhymes

Four score and seven years ago,
the Quarter Horse in Devon, near where Joe
Dombrowski drown'd, became the Crown and Crow.

"His family's 'extremeing'..." The Oneirocriticologist's Notebook: an Illustrated ABC

(Illustrations to come: a work in progress) 

The Prologue 

His family’s "extremeing." 
His kids, who are teeming,
are (most of 'em) beaming. 
Still, "Daddy" is screaming...

at "Mother," who's steaming,
(her parents are seeming
to forgo redeeming).
His colleagues, esteeming...

his meme, have been deeming
to increase their memeing.
)His sister, the judge? She's still 
transition teaming.)

And every last one
of the (bleep)ers is scheming.
So: what foul and frightening  
scenes fill his dreaming?

The Oneirocriticologist's Notebook Entries

“Arm! 
An Arm! 
Who’ll arm the alarm?”
(His dream's of an arm.) 
“Alert the gendarmes!
And, once I’m alone, shall I 
suffer great harm?”

“Bear! 
A bear! 
Ascending the stair!" 
(His dream’s of a bear.) 
“Who’s trespassing there?
Boo! Yoo-hoo! Is that you, Vlad? 
(Lil' Kim wouldn't dare.)”

“Crows! 
These crows! 
Befouling my clothes!”
(His dreams are of crows!) 
“Still…anything goes.
Can't my dirty tricks boomerang, 
don't you suppose?” 

“Dawn! 
It’s dawn! 
Yet they’re still on the lawn.
(He dreams of the dawn.) 
“Am I somebody’s pawn?
Do I vamp through November? 
All Hallows…then…gone?”

“Egg! 
An Egg! 
Extending a leg!
(He dreams of an egg.) 
“They’ll get nowt till they beg!
Ev’ry tactic seems clear. 
The agenda’s what’s vague.” 

“Fire! 
A fire! 
I’ve got to climb higher.”
(His dreams are of fire.) 
“My funeral pyre?
For my failure to…what? 
To constrain my desire?” 

“Ground! 
The ground! 
It’s growing unsound!”
(He dreams of the ground.) 
“Just say, “Nothing was found.
Give ‘em platitudes! (Hope there’s 
enough to go ‘round.)" 

“Hall! 
The hall! 
It’s becoming too small!”
(He dreams of a hall.) 
“Tell them, ‘Visit the mall!’
Hell! That minimum wage buys… 
Oops! Nothing at all.” 

“Ice! 
The ice! 
It’s forming a vice!”
(His dreams are of ice.) 
“Ignore Gore’s advice!
Is a life without polar bears 
all that not nice?"

“Jar! 
The jar! 
It’s leaning too far.”
(He dreams of a jar.) 
“Still, I love being Czar.
Just was wond’ring what year it is…
in Kandahar.”

“Klan! 
The Klan! 
They’re murd’ring that man.”
(He dreams of the Klan.) 
“They kill ‘cuz they can.
Keep your hands off of Kanye, though: 
I’m a big fan.”

“Light! 
The light! 
So blindingly bright!”
(He dreams of the light.) 
“Steer much further right!
Let’s us pray it’s not Socialist
Democrat Night.”

“Moon! 
The moon! 
It’s descending too soon.
(He dreams of the moon.) 
"Some hum; others croon.
Most will lose, nonetheless, lest they 
whistle my tune."

“Noose!
This noose! 
I can’t get it loose.”
(His dream's of a noose.) 
“Is my puss turning puce?
Now they’re saying I’m (shock!) 
sabotaging some truce.” 

“Oil! 
The oil! 
It’s beginning to boil.
(His dream is of oil.) 
“Keep on sifting that soil!
Only, no 'global warming.' 
Say that? You’re disloyal.”

“Pain! 
The pain! 
It’s returning again.”
(His dreams are of pain.) 
“Is that newsy insane?
Put a sock in it, media! 
More Novocain!”

“Queen! 
A queen! 
She’s caught in between.”
(He dreams of a queen.) 
“She’s gifted. She’s keen.
Queer as hell, but don’t tell: 
she’s a U.S. Marine.” 

“Rake! 
The rake! 
It’s becoming a snake.”
(He dreams of a snake.) 
“It’s alive! It’s awake!
Risking lives? Worth the risk 
when there’s billions to make.” 

“Sand! 
The sand! 
Quick! Lend me a hand!
(His dream is of sand.) 
“This is no place to land.
So: I’m chummy with Saudi Arabia. 
Grand!” 

“Thumb! 
My thumb! 
It’s totally numb.” 
(He dreams of his thumb.) 
“Charles Darwin was dumb.
'Tis a world safe for stem cells. 
May my kingdom come!”

“Udder! 
The udder! 
It’s starting to shudder.”
(He dreams of an udder.) 
“Up guns! Down with butter!
(Up creeks call'd Fake News 
with no paddle, no rudder.)” 

“Vine! 
The vine’s 
looking none too benign.”
(He dreams of a vine.) 
“Don’t make waves. I'll be fine.
Vill ve virebomb Tehran? 
Gott, just gimme das sign!”

“Wife! 
Your wife! 
She’s pulling a knife.”
(He dreams of your wife.) 
“With resentment she’s rife.
We will spare her. Though loopy, 
she votes Right to Life.” 

“X! 
An X! 
The site of the wrecks.”
(He dreams of an X.) 
“Do we stick out our necks
‘X’ing [YES], coaxing OPEC 
to trade oil for sex?” 

“Yak! 
A yak 
begins it’s attack.”
(He dreams of a yak.) 
“Am I getting the sack?
You must give me my last four 
(Eight? Forty?) years back.”

“Zoo! 
The zoo! 
It hasn’t a loo.”
(He dreams of the zoo.) 
“So: what do I do?
Zut! I tarnish the Oval. 
I can, thanks to…
Who…?

"Stule, the Soiling Buddha..." A Friends of the Laughing Buddha Connect the Dots Buddha Bonus: More Nonsense in Meters and Rhymes (Illustrated)

Stule, 

the Soiling Buddha,

dreads dirty-di'per days.

No puerile pup,

Stule messes up

in"adult-lescent" ways.

His soul's a bod-

hisattiva's. But

his bod's sour creme brulees.

How to Compose a Fifteener, the DIY Poem Boasting a New Poetic Form and a Sampling Methodology: More Nonsense in Meters & Rhymes

Begin by quoting the opening line of a well-known poem, ideally a pentameter line. (Adopting for yourself as author of this new work a pseudonym derived from the name of the composer of the poem you've chosen to amplify is optional.) 

Example: 

Quality by Tyll Wakespeare 

The quality of mercy is not strain’d. 

The five accented syllables appear in boldface. 

Compose a second pentameter line which, if ever so loosely, follows the narrative or other sense of the first, making sure its five accented syllables rhyme with those syllables in similar positions within the first line. 

Example: 

The quality of mercy is not strain’d.
Still, Dali, being nervous, kiss’d, then caned

Compose a third pentameter line in which internal rhyme is optional – except for the final syllable, which must rhyme with the final syllables of the first two lines. The “sense” -- narrative or otherwise -- of the line should – again, more or less loosely – complete that of the first two lines. 

Example:

The quality of mercy is not strain'd.
Still, Dali, being nervous, kiss’d, then caned
each freshman, fuming, “Let this swamp be drain’d!”

This completes the first tercet.

For the second tercet, compose a pentameter line whose five accented syllables are identical or nearly identical with those of the first tercet’s opening line but you array in a different order. Compose a second pentameter line whose accented syllables rhyme with those of the first, as was done in the first tercet. The internal rhymes of the third line are, as before, optional for all but the last syllable which must rhyme with the final syllables of the first two lines. This completes the second tercet.

Tercets three through five are composed in similar fashion, with an attempt made to have the last line of each tercet in some fashion wrap up the sense of the whole tercet -- though this wrapping up may be set aside in favor of continuity from one tercet to that following -- and to have the final tercet in some fashion meaningfully – perhaps meta-meaningfully? -- wrap up the whole poem, a poem of five tercets totaling fifteen lines.

Example:

Force by Tyll Andrahmas

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower,
of course, shows new, pristine and lively power.
It eyes me as it cries, “You need a shower.”

As through its green fuse thrives this flow’r, its force
lets two pre-teens with knives devour my horse.
Ingesting beasts? Alert Inspector Morse!

Weak green-fuse-driving flowers’ forces? Through!
We’ve seen Bath’s wives -- yours? Ours? Divorce won’t do.
What’s needed’s discombobulation, nu? 

What drives said flow’r (if force be through) is green.
It strives (though sour, though course) to “screw that scene.”
Now, ple-e-e-ease don’t claim you don’t know what we mean.)

So: flower force is through. It’s green fuse drives,
Which, dour of source (though blue of jean) apes chives.
(Grandstanding stanzas find their feet in fives.)

Ready to try one of your own? The following will get you started: 

Midway by Ollie (“Dan”) Teejerry

Midway on the journey of our life...

"The Weather Lady's waving..." Climate Changes; or, Tilaka Toccata: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

The Weather Lady’s wavings indi-
cate, in missionary Hindi,
how conditions, waxing windy,
warn each Buddha: “Mind your bindi!
You have been consign'd your bindi: 
Be inclined to bind your bindi --
lest you fail to find your bindi!
(What's that...there...behind...? Your bindi!")