-Cide by -Cide or Murders He Wrote

Moi? Contemplate self-murder? Nah! I’m fa-a-a-a-a too "nah"cissistic.
To kill another, on the other hand? That's fatalistic.

While often bored with board games (though Parcheesi I’ve not tried),

I murder’d Colonel Mustard -- and was tried for Clueicide.

Insisting I’d not slit my wrists, committing suicide,

I massacred the March King -- and was tried for Sousacide.

Though I, like you, revere the gnu (I poachers can’t abide),

still, wildebeests I’ve wasted -- and been tried for gnuicide. 

*  *  *  *  *

While claiming I’d not slay the wife – how could I harm my bride? --
I poison’d her pastrami -- and was tried for shrewicide.

While noting I’d no Kigmie kill (“So cute! So cute!” I’d cried),

I snuff'd a pair and, then and there, was tried for shmooicide.

A female Doctor? (Some have mock'd her maiden TARDIS ride.)
But, no: not me! I'll not, you see, be tried for Whoicide. 

While mouthing, “Me? Dispatch a flea? Such cavil hurts my pride,”

I crucified a zooful -- and was tried for zooicide.

*  *  *  *  *

Berating gender bias, I felt uber-qualified

to decapitate Capote -- and get tried for Truicide.

While cleaning out the septic tank, well-arm'd with fungicide,

I brain’d each bac I bared there -- and was tried for sewercide.

Insisting, “I’m pro-Indian…” (whatever that implied),

I scalp’d Black Elk and Red Cloud -- and was tried for Siouxicide.*
     * N.B.: I was not tried for croaking Crow King. 

Moi? Contemplate self-murder? Nah! I’m still too "nah"cissistic.

To shoot or smother some poor other? That's (I've learn'd) linguistic.

Two Homophonic Doggerel Distichs

Carlo Collodi, Italian-born teller of tots' tall tales, talks of Pinocchio's nose.
Karl "Loco" Lowe-Dee,* our arboriculturist, plants, prunes, then fells, our pin oak. (He grows sloes.)
     * Not to be confused with Carl O'Culo, de humongous-posterior'd poet-in-residence -- why no one knows. 

0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55: all Fibonaccis.
"8, 9, 10 -- maybe a dozen -- Jews actually died in the Holocaust"...? Tall fib o' Nazis.

Calendar Caliente or Chili Doggerel

Pins 'n' needles! Eyes 'n' hooks!

Chill January's hues seem slates,

a grey-grim play of sleet. She looks

a climate prime for skis 'n' skates.

This chili pepper celebrates

by donning earmuffs, scarf 'n' gloves

to undertake not guff he hates

but thin-ice skating -- stuff he loves.

Pins 'n' needles! Hooks 'n' eyes!

Fleet February's twenty eight, 

in falling three days short, supplies

less shot to venerate one's mate.

This chili pepper's running late

delivering his valentine.

He must (and soon!) accelerate:

"Get goin'!" That's his bottom line.

Hooks 'n' eyes 'n' nuts 'n' bolts!

Mid-March's Ides can’t hide Spring's flowers.

Lads in love, cavorting colts,

big blossoms cop from blooming bowers.

Thefts like theirs take sev'ral hours,

maybe less. (No more than two.) 

This chili's savoir faire ne'er sours:

just hear him blurt, "These buds? For you!"

Hooks 'n' eyes 'n' bolts 'n' nuts!

Escape an April's Easter eggs?

Nope! Basket fill’d, this chili struts,

sashaying on his own two pegs.

"May I make mucho more?" he begs. 

"The ankle biters love 'em so,

nor's FDA releasing regs

suppressing eggs. Say I, ‘Let's go!’"

Bolts 'n' nuts 'n' forks 'n' spoons! 

Which gifting day in May's the worst?

De Mayo Cinco France impugns;

preferring May Day -- that's the first.

"The best," rants William Randolph Hearst, 

"is World Press Freedom Day -- the third." 

(This chili, Mom's gifts undispers’d,

orates. He prates, "They're all absurd!")

Bolts 'n' nuts 'n' spoons 'n' forks!

In June, platoons of grads 'n' dads

(though tagg’d by family “dweebs” 'n' “dorks”) 

get gifts -- designer ties in plaids.

This chili'd rather troll for shads.

With six-packs in his tackle box,

he trawls among the lily pads.

(His catches cache shad roes, shad lox.) 

Spoons 'n' forks 'n' Spocks 'n' Kirks!

Jejune July's supremacists

malign, ‘mid flags ‘n’ fireworks,

more recent settlers in their midsts.

This chili simply coexists.

Like Pete 'n' Woody belts out he

(in dissing these recidivists),

"...this land was made for you and mee-e-e-e!"

Spoons 'n' forks 'n' Kirks 'n' Spocks!

The puns of August beam their rays
on circus clowns in pleated frocks
who juggle balls come circus days.
But do not think these chilis gays,

their frocks 'n' fright wigs notwithstanding --
though most do play cabarets

where juggling junk is most demanding.

Kirks 'n' Spocks 'n' things 'n' wings!

September signals: “Back to school!”

This chili in his backpack brings

an Apple XR iPhone. (Cool!)

But there are jealous chilis who’ll

report this to his home-room teacher.

She’ll impound the phone (that ghoul!).

'Tis worse than pointless to beseech her.

Kirks 'n' Spocks 'n' wings 'n' things!

October’s ears will hear, “Surprise!”

‘cuz bombshells each election brings

most napping polsters traumatize.

Does such hold true for all those guys?

Nope! Some Autumnals do quite well.

This chili? “Tricks or treats,” he cries

from deep inside his pumpkin shell.  

Wings 'n' things 'n' needles 'n' pins!

Bees, bears 'n' bats -- all beasts who snooze --

begin to don November skins

(in lieu of hitting Veracruz).

This chili, though, dons buckle shoes

(his hat 'n' belt sport buckles, too)

and goes in search of turkeys, whose

pluck’d carcasses he’ll barbecue.

Wings 'n' things 'n' pins 'n' needles!

Come December’s holiday

unless you’re Dum or Dee (those Tweedles),

soon you'll winterize your sleigh

and, not unlike this chili, say,

“Before I and my deer take flight,

and give this sack of toys away,

keep Xmas all! And so: goodnight!”

Oodles & Oodles (6,624 to be Exact: Thank You, JD) of Protest Chants for the 2020 US Election: a Cybertext Paying a Petit Hommage to Founding Oulipian Raymond Queneau and His Famed One Hundred Million Million Sonnets

A     A    A    A    A    A    A    A    A    A    A    A
B     E    G    I    K    M    O    Q   S    U    W   Y 
C     F    H    J    L    N     P    R    T    V    X    Z
D1   D2   D3  D4  D5   D6   D7   D8  D9  D10  D11  D12

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
His neckties still hang down too low.
He doesn’t know he doesn’t know.
(Real hair…? Or musty oleo?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
Did he once host some TV show?
His BFF’s our Russkie foe.
(Real hair…? Or mangl'd UFO?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

Why’s he behave like Putin’s ‘ho’?
He brags, “I’m rich!” So: where’s the dough?
(Real hair…? Or melting Arctic floe?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
He claims he speaks for Av’rage Joe.
How much back taxes does he owe?
(Real hair…? Or damaged drag queen ‘fro?

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

His plan? Expand Guantanamo.
His tweets elicit vertigo.
(Real hair…? Or frosted cookie dough?  

Hey hey! Ho, ho!
He started lying lo-o-o-ong ago.
Some hoped he’d change, but he won’t grow.
(Real hair…? Or back yard yellow snow?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

Some thought he’d shake up status quo.
But he’s a fake, so did he? No!
(Real hair…? Or dumpster'd Sloppy Joe?) 

Hey hey! Ho, ho!
He’s big on braggadocio.
He plumps for Wade; he dumps on Roe.
(Real hair…? Or stale whipp’d cream gateau?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

Mysogyny he won’t outgrow.
He grabs ‘em by their…what…? Hello!
(Real hair…? Or cesspool backup flow?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!
“Psychotic!” writes Politico.
Just call him ‘Gen’ralissimo.’
(Real hair…? Or prorogued embryo?)

Hey, hey! Ho, ho!

He calls himself a CEO
He “governs” with four kids in tow.
(Real hair…? You know…I just don’t know.)

Hey hey! Ho, ho!
His bus’ness model’s quid pro quo.
His government’s a puppet show.
You still will vote for him…? Oh, no!!

Sunshine Boys & Girls Must Come to Dust

Uncle Willy* wax'd vehement: “‘Pickle’ is funny.
An' ‘chicken.’ An' ‘cockroach.’ An' ‘cupcake’ is funny.
All ‘woids wid a K,’ not wid M, not wid L.”
Makes one wonder what Willy would designate ‘knell.’
Or ‘Ivanka’? Thinks Willy ‘Ivanka’ so funny?
Steve B thinks Ivanka’s “as dumb as a brick.”
Nowadays, ‘brick''s a funny word. (So, Steve, is ‘prick.’)

Makes one wonder if Willy’d think ‘Kushner’ so funny.
Chris Christie thinks Kushner's both bitter and sick.
Nowadays, ‘sick’'s a funny word. (So, Chris, is ‘kill’ --
as is 'kin,' 'lock'd up,' 'Newark' and 'Mockingbird Hill.'
You and Jared are, both of you, critic'lly ill.
Makes one wonder what verdict might render our Will.)

Take 'Kellyanne Conway': it starts with a K.
Hear Ms. K ramble on how Hill's emails got hack'd
(nowadays, 'hack'd''s a funny word) till she redacts
with black markers and guile -- and alternative facts.
Makes one wonder: would Willy think truth has been jack'd?

What of ‘Huckabee Sanders’? Remarkably funny.
‘Remark’ is a funny word; Sarah’s sure are:
most remarkable, awful…and awf'lly bizarre.
I perceive Sister Sarah as chip off a block.
Nowadays, ‘block’ is funny. Dad Mike? He's a crock.
'Block,' Mike,' ‘crock’? Funny all. (As is, nowadays, ‘mock.')

     * Uncle Willy Clark is the cantankerous retired vaudevillian Walter Matthau portrayed in the film version of Neil Simon's Broadway comedy "The Sunshine Boys."

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)