These Times They Are...Superlative

Now’s the best and worst of times. Indeed, the blest and curs'd of times.
The William Randolph Hearst of I'ms: the best and worst of times.
Now’s the worst and best of times. The empty feather'd nest of times.
The faulty litmus test of limes: the worst and best of times.

Ein Deutches Currywurst of times. The tot'lly unrehears'd of times.
The never reimburs'd of dimes: the best and worst of times.
The second-best (at best) of times. I.e., the anapest of rhymes.
The jester (overdress'd) of mimes: the worst and best of times.

The tots and kids eat first of times. The binged until I burst of times.
My wallet’s gone! Unpurs'd! of dimes: the best and worst of times.
Oyez, de woist 'n' best o' times. The how d’you like my breast...? of times.
Come up and see Mae West sometimes: the worst and best of times.

The craven rave and thirst of times. The durst I...? 'Deed, I durst! of times.
The yet again, coerced of thymes: the best and worst of times.
Quixote’s gloried quest of times. Go West, young man! Go West! of times.
The Halt! You’re und’rarrest! of climes: the worst and best of times.

At freedom’s breast we’re nurs'd of times. The see Amer’ca first! of times.
Once more, my bubble’s burst! of climbs: the best and worst of times.
The uninvited guest of times. The vests remain unpress'd of times.
Is this some kind of jest...? of rhymes: the worst and best of times.

The dead, embalm'd and hears'd of times. The poorly prosed or vers'd of times.
En fin, the Fanny Hurst of primes: the best and worst of times.
The stress'd from being ‘Yes-s-s-s'd’ of times. The get it off your chest of times.
The dead but unconfess'd of crimes. The worst and best of times.

Ein Deutsche 'eben erst' of times. The Bellhop of Amherst of times.
The bought and paid-for jur’st of slimes. the best and worst of times. 
The totally immers'd of times. The ple-e-e-e-e-ease give this a rest! of times. 
The bleedin' best and worst...and best...and worst and best of times.

The Punn'd Cliche as Q&A

Won’t this age of anxiety sap all sobriety…?
Not if society practices piety.

Who'd dare say that y’all ain’t the belle of the ball…?
I know no one at all with the requisite gall.

Why’s the cream of the crop rarely land at the top…?
Though some may make that stop, most eventually drop.

Is one foolish to wed on the Day of the Dead…?
Nonsense! Somewhere I read: “Even stiffs scruples shed.”

Looms the edge of the end just beyond yonder bend…?
If so, heaven forefend: we’re in deep doodoo, friend.

Knows the meaning of ‘poor’ ev’ry father of four…?
Yep! It’s budget’ry war keeping wolves from the door.

Might great gaggles of geese pull the plug on world peace…?
Sure, so text the police: “Make the ‘gak-gak-gak’ cease!”

Do the Analects tell of the Harr’wing of Hell…?
They do not. Still, don’t yell: they Zen Buddhists treat well.

Can the Island of Io sustain, in its bayou (Hey! This ain’t Ohio) a crane with one eye…?
Oh.

D’you suppose you could cram Mason jars of (say) jam into cyclotrons, ma’am…?
Yes, if less than a dram.

Might the King of the Khyber, with help from his “nighbor,” untangle this fiber…?
Nope! King’s an imbiber.

Let a mandolin band play Loew’s “Lay o' the Land”…?
Yes…unless they’re so bland that their luthier's been cann’d.

“Holy Mother of Mercy!” exclaim'd Walker Percy. “What’s happened to Circe…?
(She’d moved to New Jerce.)

His question, though haute, is quite short (and I quote): “What’s afloat in the moat…?”
(Quotha! Nothin' of note.)

If her next oath of office she takes with a cough, thus: “A-h-h-h-hem!” – who’s pissed off…? Us…?
Nix! Get off the scoff bus!

Has Vern of Versailles earn'd a piece of the pie…?
Sure. (And there but for “Why can’t the English…?” go I.)

Who’s Quixote of Queens…?
Don’s that Don, by all means, stashing billions of beans into taper-fit jeans.

Which new rules of the road disallow being tow'd eating pie a la mode…?
None in binary code.

What think Freudian shrinks of the smile of the Sphinx…?
Most draw psychical links to this story: it drinks.

Tell me: who takes the crown as the talk of the town…?
Ethel Isadore Browne. She'll take nowt lyin' down.

Why’s the U S of A always wind up this way…?
Though I rue the cliché: ‘cuz its feet are of clay.

Which – this vat of Vouvray or my café au lait – contains vitamin K…?
Neither, to my dismay.

Once the flags get unfurl’d, do the diatribes hurl’d leave one’s hair firmly curl’d...?
‘Tis the way of the world.

Where’s the Xyst of Xi’an..? Where’s the Yak of Yaiku…? Where’s the Zorse of Zagreb…?
Not in any known zoo.

The Disappeareds or Without a Trace: a Gashlycrumb Prequel

(...and they were never heard of again.) 

A is for Aidan: apprenticed to Amish.
B is for Bette: bought by brokers Islamish.
C is for Carl: caught, caged: coop’d in a cote.
D is for David: devour’d table d’hote.
E is for Edward: ensconced in an egg.
F is for Fran: force-fed figs. (Fran’s fate’s vague).
G is for Geoffrey: gone grey from gangrene.
H is for Hans: Help! Last heard from in Wein.
I is for Ike: hid on Innisfree Island.
J is for Jake: join’d a jazz band in Thailand.
K is for Kai: kill’d by klansmen in Kansas.
L is for Lon: lost – like luggage. (Lufthansa’s…?)
M is for Max: made to move east of Maine.
N is for Niles: no more! (Nooners his bane.)
O is for Oona: she’s out on her own.
P’s for Pauline: pull’d an Eva Peron.
Q is for Quinn: quarantined in a quarry.
R is for Reg: raped while rowing with Rory.
S is for Shel: sunk at sea on a charter.
T is for Ted: tends to trip, for a starter.
U is for Ulmer: undone by Ulysses.
V is for Van: voted “Viscount de Sissies.”
W…? Wendell: his way West he wended.
X is for Xeno: his xysts all upended.
Y is for Yuri: yelled “Yid!” at the Y.
Z is for Zeb: was our zoo’s zebu guy.

The Language Poet's Final Four

O    N    C    E
D    A    Y    S 
G    R    O   W
L    E     S    S 
T    H    A    N
L    O    N    G,   

W   H   O’    D
M    A    K    E 
T    H    E    M  
E    A    C    H
M   O    R    E  
F    U    L     L

N    E    E   D
K    N    O  W 
W   H    A   T
W   O    R   D, 
W   H    A   T 
S    O   N   G 

T    H    A   T, 
S    U   N   G,
N    E   T    S 
T    I    M   E
L    E    S   S
N   U    L    L.

Doin' the Spellcheck Shimmy

Whence heroes de yore, like The Right Stuff's Chuck Yigger…?
Who cheers while the U.S. files climate's hair trigger…?
Who's praising the Christian while razing the Uigher…?
Amer'ca! (At least we no longer say 'xigger.')

Who black-listed Zero Mostel and Pete Sigger…? 
Who back’d Michelle Bachmann and blog’d "How we dig ‘er!"…?
Who’s cast beaucoup ballots for Palin…? Go figger!
Amer'ca! (At least we no longer say 'chthigger.')

Who neighs to his neighbor, "My handgun's w-a-a-ay bigger"…? 
Who drives after drinking way, tres too much ligger…? 
Who feels Donald Trump is in need of a wigger…? 
Amer'ca! (At least we no longer say 'djigger.')

On steroids, Team USA's cyclists prov'd quigger, 
though using’s destroy’d more than one Major Ligger, 
while folks who should know better chortle and snigger.
Amer'ca! (At least we no longer say 'kkknigger.')

Who cannabis bans but puffs a big cigger...?
Who boozes by gallon and not by the jigger…?
Who  flaunts G. I. Joe, dissing Eeyore and Tigger…?
Amer'ca! (At least we no longer say 'thmigger.')

Who "pooh!"s his genetics but calls Mendel 'Grigger'…?
Thinks H'waii'ns by saucer came, not by out-rigger…?
And who doesn’t realize Drumpf’s an intriguer…?
Amer'ca! (At least we no longer say 'houyigger.')

Who adores and defers to the Founders with vigor,
insisting all immigrants weather the rigor
of Homeland Security's brutal buttkigger…?
Amer'ca! (At least we no longer say 'sphligger.')

When promises made to the farm-produce piggers
deserve follow-through, who are A-one renegers…?
A hint: who's hellbent -- neither zaggers nor ziggers...?
Amer'ca! (At least we no longer say 'tschiggers.')

Extraordin'ry: some black folks call themselves 'squiggers,'
whose ancestors came as slaves, stuff’d in square-riggers,
whose kin, nonetheless, are all Anti-Def Liggers.
Why would folks -- black, white -- ever call others 'thiggers'…?
Because they're Amer'cans…? Just facts, ma'am...just figgers!
(Amer'ca! In time we’ll forget we said 'mniggers.')

The Mystery of the Missing Menagerie

An alphabetical checklist of animals not observed disembarking the post-diluvial Ark 
includes the following. Each name is crossed out as its kind is addressed in the verses.
The Abracoot   The Bixwort   The Chaphter   The Dipshin   The Encest
The Fleurt   The Gannock   The Humblewied   The Indultyff   The Jimwhiskee
The Kennett   The Lastery   The Mormal   The Nestino   The Owser   The Pibling 
The Quarteus   The Ribaudred   The Snett   The Tshampeer   The Unqwood  
The Vaddage   The Waltroone   The Xissible   The Yoilous   The Zimmee

Tongues -- loos'd -- rumor’d it ‘round

how, once Noah touch'd ground –
having floated down forty-odd days –
some on board the man's ark
fail’d to, then, disembark.
What provoked such delays...? Some malaise...?

“For a judgment in rem,

I’ll put questions to Shem,
Ham and Japheth,” thought I. “Those three know
what went down on Dad’s barque.
They’ll shed light where’s there’s dark.”
Thus determin’d, I gave it a go.

“Brother Ham,” I implor'd,

“I shall not be ignor'd:
you’ve brought aardwolves, but no abracoots.”
“Shite! You’re right,” returned Ham,
“though I don’t give a damn:
before boarding, they’d shat on my boots.”

Then to Japheth I turn'd.

“Brother Japh: I’ve discern'd
you’ve no bixworts, although you’ve two bison.”
Spoke up Japh -- and I quote:
“I examin’d each coat.
Seem'd like bixworts would bring loads of lice on.”

I to Shem, with a snort:

“Holy cow!” Through his port-
hole, he'd – Ham -- chuck'd two chimps. “Where’s your claphters...?”
Chary Shem, making answer,
Said, “Claphters Ham bans, sir.
They constantly cling to the rafters.”

Then the two challenged me,

“Next you’ll query why we
have brought drakes and dugongs but no dipshins…”
then took pains to explain:
“Dipshins mock'd us: ‘What rain...?’
whence both fell into fits and conniptions.”

Later who should arrive

but their dad, Noah: “I’ve
been observing you, bugging my boys.”
Said I, “Not at all, lord –
though I must ask: on board,
why no encests...? It can’t be their noise.”

“No, no,” Noah shot back.

“Encests coo; they don’t quack.
It’s their odor that keeps ‘em ashore.
Who insists it’s their fussin’
that disinclines us, in
a word, would be wrong. Musk! No more.”

“As for noise, my good man,

it’s those fleurts and their clan
we abandon'd. Their clamor...? Rambunctious.
The twin ferrets we brought
both behaved as they ought.
But the fleurts’ lamentations...? Ur-unctious!”

“So you say, Captain N,”

I reposted, “But then,
how do you and your lads explain these...?”
And I fetch'd forth a nest
in which gannocks should rest.
“You brought geese: why no gannock pair, please...?”

“I’ll,” cried Ham, “field this, Pop.”

Then he sold me this sop:
“Anyroad, we tried loading one pair.
Said that pair (bred in Nome),
‘We’d regret leaving home.’
In th’event, we abandon'd ‘em there.”

*  *  *  *  *

“Down your gangplank skipp'd skunks

lugging vast steamer trunks,”
I observ'd, “yet appear’d no tshampeers.”
“That’s because,” answer'd Ham,
I had just told ‘em, ‘Scram!’
whence they’d drown’d in tsunamis of tears.”

The Fake & the Real or The Executioner's Song

His news is fake. His nous is fake.
(His gnus…? Fake too, folks feel.)
Now he, with (thanks to Jewish kin)
fake “…nu…?”s must daily deal.
Still, I ain't dim. When hanging him,
I'll check his noose is real.

The Sergeant N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee: an Hommage a Mildred Plew Meigs

Doh! for the Sergeant N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee! 
No poet afloat wrote as dreadf'lly as he. 
But, oh, what a one-off! So wonderf'lly twee
was the Sergeant N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee! 

So thick were his shtick, ‘twouldn’t slice with a knife! 
Still, his clowning abounded. Buffoon'ry ran rife. 
As both did -- indeed, do (see "Don Durk," "John Fife's wife") -- 
with Ms. Meigs…and N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee.

Things That Go Bump (A Thru O)

     As to 
things goin' "bump!": not a few act Alright -- tho' one
bunch (bumpees bleat) bites -- which brings on The Blight (i.e.,
after alightin,' which seems none too bright.)*
     * “Betht to 
fathen thoth theatbeltth," obtherveth Bett’ D. "Thith will 
thertainly be thuch a 'thpring-bumpy' thpree." 

     Of the  
rest that go "bump!" there be some I might Cite who "tump-
tump" on their trumpets. (They're quite a Delight...till thin 
Dendrite-like shite quits their rumps. Such a sight! 

     Who'd es-
chew things that bump...? Well, an Elamite might. (I'll bet 
Elam* would frown 'n' provide 'em a Fright 'fore he'd 
ever go gentle inside that Good night.) 
     * Actor Jack of the famously ferocious face

     I've eyed
large crops of bumpers who jump from great Height. There's this
Itie who bikes from (he claims) Isle of Wight! There's an
Israelite and a diss'd Jacobite. (To that   
whole kit 'n' ‘boodle, I’m, "Go fly a Kite!") 

     As to 
castin' some Light (if they've good Line of sight, all who
qualify Might, even though just a Mite) upon
things -- some in Nighties -- which bump in the Night: well, such
castin' I'd characterize "Outta sight!"

The Sweet Desiderata of Don Juan

Incomplete's Juan's retreat from la Spanglish Armada --
like Rennie's "Repeat: 'Klaatu nikto...Barada'!" 
Or Johann Sebastian Bach's "Coffee Cantata":
its key (half in "'D'ecaf") brews musical Dada.

Much sweeter's Juan's treat of a hot Enchilada --
though sweetest to eat is his hotter Frittata.
Consuming each leaves his personum non grata.
(Fritatas…? Juan’s eaten one hellavalotta!) 

Less sweet...? Taking heat from some street Intifada,
or hearing "Jing, Ja-Da..." from Bull Jake LaMotta,
or getting machete'd by Jomo Kenyatta,
or dancing Lambada with Lenya (Ms. Lotte).

'Tain't neat how elitist Juan's Hari (his Mata)
is fleet to remind him how "'Nada!' means Nada." 
(It is neat when sweet teeth enjoy (Omigod!) a
confection-fill'd papier-mache-bound Piñata. 

Sour sweetness -- no sheet! -- binds Tomás TorQuemada
to Twin Towers Terrorist Ringleader Atta.
Such stench can't be quench'd by Juan's "Moonlight Sonata": 
tout suite he'll need beat on their feet a Toccata.

Juan fails at Umbata; hails Dr. Vadata; 
tweets "Wacho's Waldrada beats 'X-[something]-ata.'"
Sweet "blah-blah"s of mine mimic Juan's "Yadda-yadda"...
then Juan hits the streets, bleating "Viva Zapata!" 

We're ALL Agaga Now

     If 
Aga Khan (Allah be praised!) is now Agaga Khan,
     is Ba-
lenciaga now Balenciagaga...? Go on!

     That 
creature from the Black Lagoon’s now from the Lagagoon,

     while 
Dag’s become Dagaga Hammarskjold. (How opportune!)

     E-
lena’s now Kagagan. Twist’s Jew Fagan’s now Fagagan,

     and Gad-
dafi’s Gagaddafi (No, he’s not "Menagam" Begin.)

     Sure, 
Hagar still is horrible, though now’s Hagagar call'd.

     Icelandic 
sagas...? All sagagas now. (Like you, I’m so-o-o-o appall’d.)

     Jag-
gagar and Jaggagers Mick and Pip’s attorney are,

     while Kage-
musha’s Gagamusha. (It’s a shi-shi sushi bar.)

     Look how

Lady Gagadiva now’s become Godiva’s handle.

     Where’s Ma-

nagua...? Nicaraguaga! (Recall that Contra scandal...?)

Nagasaki’s Gagasaki. (Which did Truman bomb...?)

     And those

"Oh-My-Gaga" messages on iPhones bug my mom.

     Now

Puff’s the Magagic Dragagon. (That's quite hard to say.)

     And, like Qui-

roga’s Quirogaga, Uruguay’s Uruguagay.

     Rags

Ragland’s Ragagas Ragagaland, which few would credit.

     And

Sagamore Sagagamore’s become. 'Tis true: I read it.

     Fort

Ti’s Fort Ticondarogaga (upper New York State).

     We love U-

ganda now as Ugaganda; Idi we still hate.

     Vi-

agra or Viagraga...? Each one should do the trick. 

     Let’s

watch the film Wagag the Dog. (I still don’t get that flick.)

     Let’s

dance to Xavier Cugagat; he’s still the Rhumba King.

     And

Yuri Gagagarin is, in Moscow, still the thing.

Sari, renamed Zsa Zsa, now’s re-renamed Gagabor.

     (I fear I’d

faint were I to annotate one single ‘gaga’ more.)