The White Stuff...?

White Album...? Beatles’ escapade.
White belt...? Karate, freshman grade.
White Castle...? Burgers bought by bag.
White dwarf...? Small star whose heat will flag.
White elephant...? Beware of mauling.
White Fang...? Is that Jack's Wild a-calling…?
White gold...? Contains trace manganese.
White House...? Kid Drumpf now keeps the keys.
White ink...? Signs onion skin…? Bizarre!
White joke...? “Three darkies 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...? ‘Wite’ holds one letter less.
White pages...? List they your address…?
White Queen...? In Carroll and in chess.
White Rhino...? Ganja, more or less.
Black Sox...? ’19, Comiskey Park.
White tiger...? Threaten’d. (Think ‘white shark.’)
White unicorn...? A mythic beast.
White Velvet (cake)...? Take two pans, greased…
Whitewater...? Nearly sunk Slick Will’…
White xenia...? A coral frill.
White yam...? It’s class'd D. rotundata.
White Zinfandel…? Rosé…? Nope! Not a…

Doggerel Days or Calendar Caliente for August 2019, the Hottest August on Record

     (8/1)
It’s hot! (Tres hot: 
luke warm it's not.) 
Ann Miller got 
it: "...too darn hot!"

     (8/2)
Da's AC's shot.
Ma's…? Gone to pot. 
Cole Porter'd jot 
it: "...too darn hot!"

     (8/3)
It's hot! (Think not…? 
Ya'll don't know squat.)
So-o-o-o hot one's snot 
starts not to clot.

     (8/4)
One's nose approx-
imates a Brät, 
while lucid thoughts 
turn most exot-

     (8/5)
-ic: dream scenes fraught 
with Lancelot 
and Ladies of 
Shalott, Mahat-

     (8/6)
-ma Gandhi, An-
dy Kohut, Lot-
-te Lenya, di-
-va Montserrat

     (8/7)
Caballé, sheiks 
who reek of rot-
-ten leeks in oil
of Bergamot,

     (8/8)
or Benoit
B. Mandelbrot 
(whose fractal "aht" 
I like a lot).

     (8/9)
Be you quadru-
-ple bi-pass’d tot; 
be you the Hoo-
-ple or the Mott;

     (8/10)
don pinstripe, check 
or polka dot; 
inhab McMansh 
or vacant lot;

     (8/11)
prefer weak tea 
or pepper pot 
(if tea, ami, 
that says a lot);

     (8/12)
be sri or sultan, 
late of Swat, 
prefer straight lace 
or gordian knot;

     (8/13) 
be you robot-
-ic or karat-
-e maven -- you
may need a shot --

     (8/14)
if not, at least 
some bottled wat'... 
("Some what…?" you quer-
-y.) Water, twat!

     (8/15)
("Oo-o-o-oops! Just the flu-
-id I'd forgot.") 
Who's else is hot 
(though Turandot...

     (8/16)
is not)…? Why, Rob-
-ert Falcon Scott 
of the Antarc-
-tic: "...'Sbloody hot!"

     (8/17)
Who else is hot…?
Hell's Margey Schott, 
pro-Nazi sot: 
"Mein Gott! Ich's hot!"

     (8/18)
Who else is hot…? 
Anwar Sadat. 
My cot, though in
a shady spot,

     (8/19)
feels, lately, like
a lobster pot: 
it makes me wish 
I'd got a yacht...

     (8/20)
or could lay hands 
on your garrotte. 
At least, thank god,
I need not trot...

     (8/21)
(tho' true, I do, 
more oft than not). 
But why's it hot...?
Have you forgot...?

     (8/22)
The USA's
a "melting pot." 
In any case, 
there lies this spot --

     (8/23)
it’s but a blot, 
a teensy dot – 
a beauty spot quite 
comely...? Not!) --

    (8/24)
upon die Son-
-ne...done! It's hot. 
(Or, like as not, 
some knotty plot...

    (8/25)
of Aeroflot's,
or, p'rhaps, Pol Pot's.) 
Kool-Aid, it's said's, 
verboten: "...Dot-

    (8/26)
-dot-dot-dash-dash-
dash-dot-dot-dot..."* 
Yet, 'til the Trane
Man states he's got...
     * Mr. Morse's code for 'S.O.S.'

    (8/27)
our S.O.S, it's 
still hot, wot! 
Some cooler spot 
to plant one's "bott"...?

   (8/28)
You'll find no tit-
-tle -- not one jot. 
Say...is it me 
or is it not...

   (8/29)
just that much hot-
-ter since I sta't-
-ed jotting this, 
my Ode De Hot...?

   (8/30)
It's hot! So what...?
There's simply "not-“
-thing to be done...
but kvetch alot.

   (8/31)
Cole got it right: 
It’s too darn hot. 
(Ol' Cole's a rot-
-ter: too damn hot!)

   (9/1)
How's 'bout some cool 
September song...?
(September In The 
Rain’s not long.)

Dump D. Drumpf!

First written in September of 2016 but pertinent all over again

Dump D. Drumpf!
He spat out great gall. 
Dump D. Drumpf!
He shat on us all.
Are Republicans on some
hallucinogen…? 
Will conservative voters
snap out of it…? When…?

Dump D. Drumpf!
His widget's a wall. 
Dump D. Drumpf!
His digits are small. 
He mixes the Kool-Aid
supramicists drink. 
(And what must 
the global community think…?)

Dump D. Drumpf!
Do it now! Do not stall! 
'Twill prove fatal to wait
until late in the Fall: 
He's down with endorsements
from Duke and the Klan. 
So: why does he give the green light…?
'Cuz he can.

Don't Stalk! or The Second-to-Last Resort

If door-bust deal you hope to steal,
best practice: Run...don't walk! 
If neighbor's gate you'd "decorate,"
spray aerosols...don't chalk!
If names you'd slur which end in '-ner,'
shout ‘Hef’! Shout ‘Shat’! Don't ‘Faulk’! 
If Don the Drumpf you wish to dump,
just vote him out! (Don't stalk!) 

To batters who you'd shout "Skiddoo!"
just pitch the ball...don't balk!
If Tonys you would peer review,
vet Blair! Quiz Quinn...don’t “Hawk”!
If Donald's fro you'd overthrow,
to do it, bro, don't talk!
In short, if Drumpt you'd really dump,
just vote him out. (Don't stalk!)

Annus Terribilis or 2017: His First Year in Office

Spawn’d down some dank
Janitorial drain,
embolden’d by bogeymen
Febrile and jumpy,
besmirch’d by the
Marks of the murderer Cain, 
he howls to who'll hear:
"Apres moi, l'Oncle Grumpy."* 
Fowl fluids -- bilge,
Mayonnaise -- flow from twinn’d heads.
To Darwinian laws of the
Jungle he hews
as opponents he
Juliennes, minces 'n' shreds.
His ascendency
Augurs an age of fake news.
It’s severe civil
Sepsis I'm worried about.
Still, should dirges in
Octaves be suffer’d to swell...?
Wa-a-a-a-ay too late for
Novenas; our time's running out:
Ple-e-e-ease! Abort this in-
Decent descent into hell.
     * Though the identity of l’Oncle Grumpy 
remains a mystery, VP Mike Pence seems
the likeliest candidate to assume it.

Five Ws & an H

     “Who do
you few eschew,” muses
Brian Boru. “
     Can one
pander to Gandhi, not
Pandit Nehru…?”

   “What a
slut…so much smut! Nut case --
open-and-shut,” 
     ‘tut!’s Judge
Jeff to Judge Mutt. “But...she
sure does strut, what!”

   “When zen'd
men again pen 'em like
Jean La Fontaine's,” 
     ventures
Alfred Lord Tenn-, “...then I'll 
tender ‘Amen!’s”

     “Where-so-
e’er, fair-haired br’er,” declares
Robespierre,” 
     we dare
bare les derr'erres, we’ll peel
‘ready-to-wear’!”

     “Why de-
cry my dry eye…?” sighs a
fly Buddy Guy, 
     when men
libel his tie. “No vox
populi, I.”

     “How’ll I
“Ciao!” Kung Pao Cow…?” howls a
foul Chairman Mao 
     as a
scowl prowls his brow and he
zips down his trou-. 
     "What al-
lows the Great Tao: a kow-
tow…? Or a bow, 
     now I’ve
left it to Beaver…? What
ails Tony Dow…?”

Who Shat on Whom? Or, Does the Exception Always Prove the Stool?

Little Miss Mufti…? She shat on Ed Tufte.
Little Jack Horace…? He shat on Chuck Norris.
Little Brass Ambo...? He shat on John Rambo.
Little Blow Peep...? On Uriah -- young Heep.
Brave Little Toot shat on George Frederick Root.
Grave Little Nell shat on Patti LaBelle.
Mary's contrary: she shat on Rick Perry. 
But fat Mrs. Spratt gave no shit where she shat.

Capsule Comments Made by an ABC's Worth of Individuals One Microsecond After Their Respective Deaths

A-a-ack! Satan’s grim! 
Who'd dance with him…?     

But, now I'm here. 
E-bay my bier! 

Curse the dark 'n' 
Philip Larkin.

Di- (I fear I 
see) -es irae.

Enough's enough!
(Putsch came to “shuff-.”*)
     * As in “...-le off this 
mortal coil.”

Fault's my own.
I shoulda known.

God's call'd Bel.
(She's black as well.)

Though out I'd opt,
he* kindly stopp’d.
     * Cf. Emily 
Dickenson’s #479. 

I died. You lied.
(Ironicide…?)

Jus' like I tol' ya:
no magnolia.

Kiss good-bye yer
ass, young Squire!

Less is more…?
A metaphor.

Memento mori.
(No one’s sorry.)

No sound; no sight;
no shit: "Good" night*?
      * As in Thomas’s
“Do not go gentle…”

Off blocks, my chips.
Apocalypse!

Pride had shit
to do with it.

Quick or dead,
this ain't my bed. 

"Ripley said..."?
(But Ripley’s dead.) 

Suspend the search!
Arrivederch!

To be…? I'd not.
So: off the pot.*
     * As in “shit 
or get…”

Upside...? None.
No mon-, no fun. 

Very, very
"Alighieri." 

What the hell...?
I'd been so well. 

X times three...?
I can't agree. 

Yes, it's hot,
though dry it's not. 

Zen di'n't work.
I've been a jerk! 

Whose? Or, Nonsense for a Snowy Evening

Here's Robert Frost ‘neath snowy trees:
“Whose woods these are I think I know…”
Beers -- Belgian ales -- go well with cheese:
“Whose worts…? These are (I think) Hainault’s.”
Aleppo’s ethnic music stores:
“Whose ouds these are I’d plink, not blow.”
Through Bible thumpers' closet doors:
“Whose goods art these…? Thy pink I'd throw.”

Some metal crosses grace our town:
“Whose roods are these…? They’re zinc, yet glow.”
From brothers beige and black and brown:
“Whose ‘hoods be deese…? Dey stink, ma bro!”
From telling tales, Milne rarely rests:
“Roo’s moods bizarre my shrink I’ll show.”
Some Brits engage in kitchen tests:
“Whose pudds, these…? Dare I lick the bowl…?”

Gone’s Sigmund’s objectivity:
“Whose moods, these…? Arch! Ein kinky, no...?”
French days wax warm. Who’s thirsty…? Me”
“Whose food bar, this…? I’d drink iced eau.
This scribe for colored pencils fights:
“Whose words are these…? Their ink’s de trop.”
Ms. Martha from Mount Vernon writes:
“Whose wooden teeth…? A. Lincoln’s…? No!”

Though blue’s not bad, I’m not a fan:
“Whose woads are these…? (Like [wink] nice, though.)”
Zamboni eyes a backup plan:
"Would kudzu freeze ice rinks…? Why, no.” 
Some apiarists can be mean: 
"How'd you harm bees...? I'd pink eye sow."
Was Tiger in the pro shop seen...?
"Those Woods par threes I think I'd blow."

Privyet, Proshchay!

Who'll swamp with hate our ship of state?
The Putin puppet Don'll.
"I'll now be Czar.* Who'll crown me? Barr... 
and Moscow Mitch McConnell."
     * Bizarre indeed.

A Bralphabet

The bimbo array’d in an Abracadab Bra 
shall school as a sorc’ress and saw folks in half.
The bimbo display’d in a My Name Is Bar Bra 
shall feign funny ladies and fetch folks a laugh. 

Gals knockin’ 'em dead in an Indian Co Bra 
shall bob from a basket to blues blown on flutes.
Gals makin’ their bed in a Sixth of Decem Bra
weds elves name of Nick dress’d in cherry-red suits. 

When Cavan colleens wear an Erin-Go Bra,
they shall swing a shellelagh and savor their stout. 
When actresses preen in their Fortin Bras…? Hah! 
She'll ne’er yield till she fathoms what Hamlet's about. 

Who suits up in BraGgarts but elsewise runs nude 
shall be labell’d "Ms. Show Me" – nor never "Ms. Prude."
Who snoots, "I’ll sashay in my J. Edgar Hooters” 
shall never lack confidence. (Nor, indeed, suitors.) 

Who tries on a BraIlle shall prove tres touchy-feely. 
What "walking's" requir'd her friends' fingers can do.
Who ties on a JaBrawock’s crazy…no, really!
(Who puts on a Jugg Band's meshugganah, too.)   

Who dons a Khalil Gi Bra (not her hijab)…? 
She’ll pass through a dim psychological haze.
Who puts on a 34D LiBrarace...?
She’ll fascinate women and men, straights and gays.  

Who wears a Bra Mitzva (such women don’t have to be
Jewish) shall move from NY to LA.
Who effects a NeBraska shall move to Grand Island
and work as a cornhusker’s flunky. (Oy, vay!) 

Sue wears "Ob-la-di Ob-la-da Life Goes On Bras.
There's no way such gals shall not sing with the band.
Who wears a Penum Bra, though, plays second fiddle.
Her lights under bushels she’ll keep well in hand.

Who wears a George BraQue shall appreciate cubism,
although orbiculism prefer.
Who wears a Bra Rabbit shall toil as a Bunny
in Hugh’s Playboy mansion -- Hef’s Hutch, as it were.

Who wears the Bra Sband to a different drummer
must march, doin’ diddles and ratamacues.
Who dares wear a Bra Twurst (especi’lly in summer)
must parch…or sweat puddles of Mulligan Stews.

The Fräulein who’s view’d in a rude U Bra Alles
shall bring to mind Herr Hitler’s Mädchen Ms. BraUn.
The Fräulein who’s nude is unclued. Her Bra Vissimo’s
closeted as she parades around town.

Who’d strut in a Bra Nee, although she seems scrawny,
shall shout, “’Tis a Bra(w)ny I’m harness’d in here.”
The slut in a BraXton shouts, “Some John climax’d on
my “gabradine” BraXton. ‘Tis ruined, I fear.”

The bimbo array’d in a Yogi Bra…? Fussy!
No Winnie the Pooh Bra. (No Polar Bra, either.)
The bimbo display’d in a bold Bra Zen Hussy…?
Risque! (Now…who craves a “bra”ndiloquent breather…?)