Spasibo

Meet a marriage made in hell.
The Daddy doubles as the groom.
The bride? Ivanka…badda-boom!

Detect you that mendacious smell,
the bigly el'phant in the room?
It's not Ivanka's new perfume.

The bridesmaid's Conway -- born to sell
chic tchotchkes from Ivanka's Loom.
The goal? To boost Th’Ivanka Boom.

The Queen of Soul assesses well:
"Say, baby, who be zoomin' whom?"
(Ivanka needs a nom de plume.) 

That sound you hear? The sunset gun:
just dump the Kool-Aid in your Sanka.
First, though: fashions by Ivanka.

Who's to thank? The Trump Cartel.
('Merci' in French; in German, 'danke.' 
Thanks for all you do, Ivanka!)

Role Call

I call my aunt Aunt Tipodees. So solitary, she.
I call my brother Brother ‘Hood. Small-town, small-time is he.
I call my cat Cat Astrophe. She runs amok when wet.
I call my dog Dog Matic. Spot’s one narrow-minded pet!
I call my eyes Eyes Sosceles. Each boasts an equal droop.
I call my face Face Etious when it names me Nincompoop.
I call my grandma Grandma Laise. The sad old hag ’s been sick.
I call my horse Horse Radish. That old nag still packs a kick.
I call my ID I De Clare. It's utile paying bills.
I call my jacket Jack et Jill. I sport it scaling hills.
I call my ketchup Ketch A Perch. "Delish" on fish and chips.
I call my legs Leg Humes. They'd pass for runner beans…with hips.
I call my mom Mom Entum. She outruns me. (Think of that!)
I call my nose No Se Um and pretend it’s not so fat.
I call my organ Organdy. It's draped with yards of yarn.
I call my pipa Pea Pod Tree, ‘cuz I don’t give a darn.
I call my quail Que Lo Que when I wish to know what's up.
I call my rabbit Rabid Dog: that hare's one scary pup.
I call my sister Cistern Tank: she’s got a potty mouth.
I call my toaster Toes Turn’d Black: it sends my slices south.
I call my undies Undecided. Nowt else comes to mind.
I call my vest Vestigial. It’s grown too small, I find.
I call my wart War-Torn. It's gross. It's foul. Some people stare.
I call my xyst Sestina. I compose my lyrics there.
I call my yoyo Yo Yo Ma: it plays upon a string.
I call my zebra C Brassiere. (I think that’s everything.)

C'est "See Bono" or Disambiguation II: Sonny & Sheer? Sonny & Shire? Sonny & Shore? Sonny & Sure? Sonny & Shower? Sonny & Shooer? Sonny & Share? Nope! Sonny & Cher!

See Bono relax on a bench or Bergere? That there's Sonny & Chair, never Sonny & Cher.
See Bono perturb hot pink pom poms with flair? That pair's Sonny & Cheer, never Sonny & Cher.

See Bono enjoy pulled pork barbecue fare? That there's Sonny & Char, never Sonny & Cher.
See Bono's plump partner? (What some people wear!) That pair's Sonny & Charo, not Sonny & Cher.

See Bono with Communist champions pair? That there's Sonny & Cho, never Sonny & Cher. 
See Bono wash dishes? (The drying's his share.) That pair's Sonny & Chore, never Sonny & Cher.

See Bono breathe Switzerland’s crisp Alpine air? That’ there's Sonny & Chur, never Sonny & Cher.
See Bono with Charilyn? No love lost there. That pair's Sonny & Cher. Yep, that’s Sonny & Cher.

Split Bananagraffe on O U L I P O

Who sings this song? Not Lupe Lu, who dump’d a Righteous Brother, nu...?
Nor is it China’s bard Li Po. Of Li...? But "leetle" one can know.
Perhaps it’s Hamlin’s Alley Oop. (Do cavemen sing...? I'm sure they poop.)
It’s not stigmata’d Padre Pio, seen -- in sync! -- 'round Rome and Rio.
Can Olive Oyl (it ain't spelt ‘Oil’) who’s Swee-Pea’s “mum” and Popeye’s “goil,”
emit one note from either lip...? Or is Oyl just a comic strip...?

Perhaps it’s Edith Piaf. Oui. The Little Sparrow’s bel esprit...?

Quite perfect – present-, past- and plu-. (Would Edith P appeal to you...?)
Some Galilean moon -- say, Io (not Nebraska, not Ohio).
Might it be the source, ask I...? Does song descend from up that high...?
I must admit that Io’s up. But is it too far up there...? Yup!
(My Poetry Potential Pool is quickly drying up. Uncool!) 

Bud Abbott has a buddy Lou. Is singing something Lou could do...?
(Who doesn’t sing when in the loo...? You do it. Yeah, I do it, too.)

This verse’s end I’m set to lop. Somewhere, such nonsense has to stop.
I’m peckish, too. A dab of poi would hit the spot. Char sui...? Oh, boy!
Who sings this… Wait! I sense a loop. Repeat...? That low I’ll never stoop.
‘Twould vex my pals from Oulipo. They'd malmouth me 'cross Mexico.

Prosopogostich on Christian Morgenstern

 Not unpleasant to know...? Mr. Morgenstern,
ever yearning for depths, never shallows.
That dolts pooh pooh his po’ms makes my organs churn:
songsmiths loved Christian’s "Songs of the Gallows."
Though they netted him less than most Gorgons earn,
ev’ry Galgenlied silliness hallows,
as do all lyrics penn’d by Herr Morgenstern.
(Christian also wrote essays et al. prose.)

In Error

Alphabetical Order Errors in (What Else?) Alphabetical Order (in progress)

A’s for ‘a little bit’ under ‘the weather.’
B’s for ‘bassoon sounding’ lower than ‘flute.’
C’s for ‘conducting my’ post ‘mortem, Mortimer.’
D? ‘Desire’ under ‘the elms’ – no dispute.

E is for ‘eggs (three, farm-fresh)’ over ‘easy.’
F is for ‘far’ above ‘Cuyoga’s waters.’
G is for ‘get thee’ behind ‘me, Sir Satan.’
‘H’ before ‘B…U…T”? Pun's magna mater's. 

(a work in progress) 

Sid & Emoji

Sid Seizure & Emoji Coca

List of 20 Names Proposed for Volume of Verse Earmarked for Reading While in Bathroom -- Subtitled "Verses for John"

Lavastories    Throne Rumors    Odes de Commodes    Bog Ballades
Latrine Keens     Potty Po'try     Johnny Jingles     "Can"tatas 
Privy Po'ms     Head Lines     Toiletunes     Loollabies 
RestRhymes     CrappaRap     Gents Room Gingles     Hymnal d'Ur'nal
W. C. Shanties     Dunny Ditties     Brascorale     KhaziKarols

Amerindian Adages

Amerindian Adages

"When his arrow's too narrow,"
Apaches observe, 
"where's the brave who'll behave
with the requisite nerve?"

"When our clans hatch no plans,"
keen Comanches declare,
"a chief’s daughter courts slaughter –
and death without hair."

Notwithstanding Elk’s* efforts 
with soothsayer's sticks,
any finely fletch’d feather
wet weather predicts.
     * Not the more famous Black Elk
but his fellow Oglala called simply
Elk. Both men toured with Buffalo
Bill's Wild West in 1887.

"Gitche Manitou gives us
proportionate rope --
hemp to hang ourselves with,"
hold the Hopi. (They cope.)

"Building igloos takes ice,"
elder Inuits drawl;
Jemez* chiefs note, “Al fresco
takes nothing at all.”
      * Pronounced "HEY-mesh." 

"Our kayaks need keels,"
goes an ancient Kaw fable,
"like lunch on the lawn
needs a one-legged table." 

"March a mile in my moccasins,"
Mashpees assert,
“lest you never know nowt
'bout the nature of hurt."

“Once bitten, twice shy,”
say the Osage’s sages.
“Who’s tooth-prick’d three times
is a fool for the ages.”.

“Quick! Picture a number!”
This old Quapaw saw
bodes the run of papooses
you’ll sire with each squaw.

There’s a Seminole saying goes
something like this:
“When the peace pipe’s de trop,
give the pow-wow a miss.”

There used to be Utes
who knew ev’ry Ute dictum.
Oy vay! All turn’d out
to be obiter fictum.

The wise Winnebago chief
whispers, “Smoke tea
if you’d be ke’oke’o-
(e)xtra)-kanaka-free!”*
     * ‘Ke’oke’o kanaka’ is Hawaiian for
‘white man.’ Waukesha (Winnebago
stomping ground) is admittedly a ways
further than an arrow’s flight from
Waikiki, but only if audiences won’t
allow for some poetaster’s license.)

"The Yurok’s from Vegas,
so that’s why a Yurok
knows zilch ‘bout a kayak."
(And zip 'bout a currach.)

Six Potus Tweets (Once Subconscious, Thus Left Untweeted) or I Know What I Know

"...I love The Stars ‘n’ Stripes. I love ‘em. Billowing or Furled.
I know much more about The Flag than anyone in the world..."

"...I love The Mind. I love the Brain Stem. Love the Frontal Lobe.
I know much more about The Mind than anyone on the globe..."

"...I love Christianity. The Cross. The Virgin Birth.
I know much more about The Lord than anyone on earth..."

"...I love Mineralogy. Love Quartz. Love Tuff. Love Granite.
I know much more about The Rock than anyone on the planet..."

"...I love the Giant Panda Bear. I love its Black Eyes, Paws, Nose…
I know much more about The Bear than anyone in the cosmos..." 

(I love the Lie. I love the Guile. I love Prevarication.
I know much less about The Truth than anyone in creation.)

Out With '18, In With '19

Though our losses outnumber our wins
and our forfeitures outpace our pins
and our outs have the jump on our ins,
once again, the megillah* begins.
     * Some mss show "Armageddon" here.
Which reading will prove definitive? As Lucky
says in Waiting for Godot, …"time will tell...
quaquaqua…"