The Euphonious Gazetteer

In Birmingham is heard the Alabagpipe’s solemn drone
In Phoenix, Snareizonas keep the beat.
In Miami, night till morn, each native toots his Florglehorn.
In Nome, Alaskazoos resound on every street.

Woodwindianas wail…but where? In downtown Terre Haute.
Wilmingtonians perform on Celloware.
In Pittsburg and surrounds Serpentsylvanias abound…
though in Saint Louis, Chalumeaussouris are rare.

In Hartford and New Haven, the Corneticutt is blown.
In Atlanta, it’s the Georgan they enjoy.
In Star and Pocatello dwells this Idahoboe fellow.
In Chicago people bow Vielleinois.)

In Des Moines, the Iowashboard reins as instrument of choice.
In Topeka and in Dodge? The Kanstanet.
In Louisville and Bowling Green, they play Kentukuleles.
Baton Rouge is where Louwhistliana’s met.

In Boston Massachuba’s play. St. Paul plays Minnesoudas.
Minneapolis enjoys its Theraminn.
In Yazoo City, Mississippiano players run their scales.
In Butte and Billings, the Montenor Sax is in.

In Omaha, Nebrasska sections dominate their bands.
In New Rochelle, New Yorccarina’s king.
In Raleigh, not one flutist’s found whene’er North Carillonas sound.
In Deadwood, South Dakotos are the thing.

In Cleveland, the Ohihat’s part of ev’ry drummers kit.
In Portland’s felt the Oregong’s vibration.
A roadie out of Providence sets up his own Rhodes Island.
In Cope, South Carillonas stir elation.

In Fargo and in Jamestown, North Dakoto’s what one hears..
In Nashville,Tennessitars are what’s cool.
In Dallas, Texasaxophones outnumber longhorn steers.
Way out in Salt Lake City, Flutah’s rule.

In Richmond, how their Virginals drive southern belles quite wild!
In Wheeling, the West Virginal intones.
In Milwaukee, the Wisconcertina’s played by ev’ry child.
For their Or’gon folks in Portland sport a Jones.

In Silver Spring, the Dulcimeryland is on display.
In Norman, you’d an Oudklahoma hear.
In Concord, their Jews Harpshires, play'd in tune, will make your day.
In Barre, Vermontdolins caress the ear.

In San Juan, Puerto Ricorders sound, play'd even by the tots.
In Denver, Coloradios get played.
In Montgomery, Alabanjos give the natives there the hots.
(In DC…? What music's heard’s a diff’rent shade.)

The Song of the Otolaryngologist

There but for Pell grants go eye.
Lacking funds, you can’t get there from ear.
Who knows this? The Shadow: he nose.
(As for those who would throw it? Just throat!)

Stifle Your Kids!

Admonish all your ankle biters! Bridle your bambinos!
Chaperone your cherubs! Dominate your dwarfarinos!

Educate your elvervolker! Fetter fast your fidgets!
Govern all your gamins! Guard your gremlins! Ground your gidgets!

Hog tie all your half-pints! Indenture your Infantae!
Jail your junior jackanapes! Kibosh your kiddies, kan’t ye!

Lock away your lambkins! Muzzle all your moppets!
Nail your Nips! O'erhaul your offspring! Playpen – please – your poppets! 

Quell your quints! Rein in your rugrats! Silence all your sucklings!
Tailor-tune your tadpoles (lest turn'd into ugly ducklings)!

Unfree your urchins – urgently! Your varmints? Please vamoose!

Wind down your whippersnappers – else each “whipper will” run loose.

Xenoblast your xiphomorphs! Yoke up all your young!

Fin’lly…ziplock all your z-z-z-z-zsters! If you do, this verse I’ll bung.

The View (in Briefs) from Seat Pleassant, MD

I’ve dined in Anaheinie, Callipygia.
Dog days I've pass'd in Arsealona, Spain.
In Bunnsylfannya’s Bethleham I’ve visited my people
(although Nana lives in Kinnebuttport, Maine).
Buttocksi, Mississippi? Just last month I paid a call.
In Dallass, Texass frequently I’ve tour'd.
Through Prairie Tushien, Wisconsin once I took a stroll.
I'm in asstonishing spots ever found immur'd.

Some day I'll view Buttswana in South Africa.
In Crackow, Poland long I've long'd to dwell.
A trip to Keister Island? The vacation of a lifetime.
Trear, Germany I sigh to see as well.
Queback and Oniontario in Canada: I hope 
some summer days there -- someday -- come to pass.
The Bottoman Rumpire I miss'd.
The Hamstead Heath as well. (I'm piss'd.)
But(t)...that's what comes from sittin' on my ass. 

There's Nonsense. Then There's Nonsense.

"'Twas brillig: toves gyred in the wabe (sev'ral, slithy) while mome raths outgrabe."
Rev'rend Dodgson penn'd scores of such scenes and Carrollians know what he means.

"Mass times the speed of light squared equals energy," Albert declared.
(He was young, barely out of his teens.) Ev'ry physicist knows what he means.

Tho' off, does Lear's Scroobious Pip, piping, "Chippety...Flippety Chip,"
taxonomical cushions careens...still, most everyone knows what it means.

"I'm a genius...I'm stable -- all true! -- with the best words...the highest IQ...
with big hands...with superior genes..." Breathe there any who know what he means?

Richard Squirr'ly's "Where Do Hoi P'lloi Hang All Day?"

Archy’s at the arch’ry range. 
Barbra’s at the bar. 
Cameron’s at the camera shoppe. (He’s into SLR.)
Delia’s at the deli. 
Ellie’s there, too, truth to tell. 
Florence? At the florist. (Florence loves “that floral smell.”)
Grover’s at the grocery store. 
Homer hangs at home. 
Isaac’s at the ice cream stand. (Notes Isaac: “When in Rome…”)
Jim’s at the gymnasium. 
Kendall’s at the kennel. 
Lum is at the lumber yard: “I find fir 'fundamennel.'”
Mark is at the market. 
Nefertiti's there as well. 
Oscar's at the oculist: "I'm mad for tortoise shell."

Pete's down at the pizza parlor. 
Queenie's gone there, too. 
(Reece at the recycling center's wond'ring: "Where are you?")
Shuster's at the shoe store. 
Tracy's at the track trying (largely unsuccessfully) to win her money back.
Uly's at the undertakers purchasing a casket. If there looms some money question, Uly's sure to ask it.
Viggo's at the vegan mart: organics are his thing. 
Warren's at the warehouse outlet buying bargain bling.
Xerxes? At the Xerox store. 
Yuri's at the Y. Whereas 
ZaSu and Lou and you-know-who are at the zoo. Goodbye!

"All its cockles and mussels..." Complexity

All its cockles and mussels and oysters and clams,
all its marmalades, lemon curds, jellies and jams,
all its levees and breakwaters, ditches and dams
crowd the cosmos and leave it complex.

With its Myanmars and Monacos, Spains and Siams,
with its buggies and carriages, strollers and prams,
with its swearings and oaths, with its curses and "Damn!"s,
it's profound -- in a mound of respects.

All its ounces and carats, its grains and its grams,
all its misters and missuses, sirs and mesdames,
all its Maxes and Morties, its Sids and its Sams...
beg a Q&A, "What in heck’s nex'?"

With its aunties and uncles, its grampas and grams,
with its briskets and pot roasts, its veal joints and hams,
with its puppies and ponies and kittens and lambs,
how's it manage to salvage the wrecks?

All its bunkos and frauds, all its shakedowns and scams, 
all its streetcars and gondolas, trolleys and trams, 
all its "Cheerio!"s, "Ciao!"s, "So long, Sammy!"s and "Scram!"s
tend to press one to Windex one's specs.

With its midterms and quizzes and final exams,
with its tubers and 'taters, its spuds and its yams, 
with its beanies and bonnets, its top hats and tams...
what comes next? Abrogation of sex? 

All its Tinas and Trishas, its Pollys and Pams, 
all its 'were's and 'once was'es, its 'is'es and 'am's, 
all its "Splooge!"s and "Fwap!"s, its "Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am!"s
leave space curved – both concave and convex! 

With its cookies and crackers, its melbas and grahams,
with its lintels and lock rails, its joists and its jambs,  
with its potted meats, jerkys, Tofurkys and Spams,
'tis enough to kerfuff’ all call’d X!

Qs&Ws

Do winners never quit? Don't quitters ever win?
If winners split, be they for shit, however it they spin?

Does Damon Runyon run? Does Grover Cleveland cleave?
Do Brother Ray scoot t'other way? (Now that I can't believe.)

Is Count D counted out? Does Dolly D depart?
(Though Elvis P turn'd in his key, the King still lives! Take heart!)

Wins Walken when he walks? Quits Hoffman, taking off?
If splits Stallone, d'we Sly disown? (And what's with Hasselhoff?)

Does Chairman Mao bow out? Does Eastwood exit east,
Does either guy receive a bye? (A raincheck chit at least...?)

Does Tim McGraw withdraw? Does Patsy Cline resign?
Does Fielding yield, then leave the field not giving us some sign?

Do guys apostasize? Do labmates abdicate?
Do you suppose aides "Aedeeoze!"? Do hacks evacuate?

Does Anne* abandon ship? Gives in Anais Nin?
Aeneas...quitter? Not one whit. (Herr Adolf may 'ave been.) 
     * Diarist Frank 

Does Bonaparte retreat? Does Glenn Close close the book?
When fops drop out, point out the lout and I'll deploy the hook. 

(More Qs and Ws to come: a work in progress)

Holiday Botchulits or Xmas in June

Familiar lines of holiday verse followed by anagrams of those lines and one-line wrap-ups.

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.

I can’t wait here for dim Ms. Gish, Ma...
...'cuz she and that equally dim sister of hers dream only of a dusty Christmas, don't they...? 

Jingle bells, jingle bells.
Jill’s been selling LBJ gel.
“Thank you, Jillian, dear. The dry ol’ coot could surely use a little,” opines Lady Bird.

Once in royal David’s city

a very nosy old (CCII AD) nit…
…finally up ‘n’ died. (Centuries ago those OT types did live for donkey’s years, didn’t they...?)

I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus.

Nick’s a slimy gin sot, Mama -- a wuss!
Thus I’m leaving home for good…right after the exchange of gifts and the airing of grievances.

‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house,

when Father’s big car met its host, he won the URL “Hugo’s Health.”
This year, apparently, Santa’s gifting every mother’s child exactly what it’s always wanted.

Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer.

In our “Dr. Loser Dept.,” he’d need her…
…‘her’ referring, of course, to Mrs. Claus, the former RN who’s long served in that capacity there at the Pole.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.

I cannot spit on so fresh a green nut.
(In any case one would think that on Xmas Eve a body could find better things to do.)

Silver bells. Silver bells. It’s Christmas time in the city.

Still, the scary birthers’ cells I’m visitin’ smell best. I’ve…
…looked pretty thoroughly into this holiday sense obsession of mine but have yet to discover any plausible explanation. In the meantime, seasons’ greetings!

Dervishish (Or, as friend-of-the-blog JC's Brooklyn dad used to teach the youngsters: "Ersters'll sperl if ya berl 'em in erl.")

Ur's santurs skirl. One chap (no churl: friends call 'im Burl, the Earl of Twirl) dons skirts o' pearl. Tight folds unfurl to form a curl. Burl twirls; skirts swirl. (‘Twere me...? I’d hurl.)

“’Tis but,” says Merlin, ”psycho-neur’l.” Still, dervish, whirlin' gets the girl -- not urban: rur'l! From Russia (Ur'l)... a gal call'd Shirl. (This blather...? As per Lawrence Durr'll.)

New Prosopogostichs: Lenny Bruce

Not unpleasant to know…? Mr. 
Bruce,
one whose humor’s been label'd ab-
struse.
True: Len's gambols weren’t no Mother 
Goose
and Len struggled with substance a-
buse.
Yet the fallout from Lenny’s pro-
fuse:
Robin, Richard and George* siphon'd
juice
from the pleasant-to-know Mr. 
Bruce.
Of comedians, Lenny's the 
Zeus.
     * Williams, Pryor and Carlin et al.