Roe, Row, Rhosary: an Abecedarial Carol of /RO/s Array'd in One Hundred Twenty Nine Rows

The IntRO:

Life is...what…? A dream…? A scream…?

A stream…? A bream…? A meme…? Oh, no!
     Nope: 
life is but a -ro, row, roe, -reau,
-raoh, rho, -rohe, roh, rowe, hro, rop... 

The CaROl:

A 

     Young 

ROgues in bROgues All dROve Pierce-ArROWs 
Ages 'fore "A" Fords AROSE,
     ere 
ChevROlets (As spelt with their 'RO's,
or, as oft, misspelt with rare 'RHO's)
belch’d AbROad such foul AROmas --
men (And maids!) nosed…in A ROW.

B

     Sans

spats, Jack KeROuac 'n' BurROUGHs,
Beats, Beat Bounds Beyond Art's BurROWs:
"ThROugh our Burg, Babe wheels wheelBarROWs,"
William wrote. "Behold their furROWs!"
(Babe, though retRO, ain't no 'ho'.) 
     "Doh! 
That's no lady: that's...ma B-RO!"

C 

     Whence 

Come the newest pink-hued CastROs --
fresh Fidels* to fROnt for past '-stROs...?**
Think you'd Catch -- not spelt with RHOs -- 
     Chic 
Sheryls, Johnnys (tos or fROs),
     black
Jims, Corvidae, AbsaROkas --
each 'n' every one a CROW...?

     * An anagram for 'fields’ and thus

anagrammatically fresh.   

     ** Short for 'monstrosities' -- e.g., 

Juan Battista. 

D-F

     Do 

Bryans Dive for Clarence DarROWs...?
"O'er De top" be too De tROP,
     though 
bets on Cal Draw more DinéROs.
(FROm primeRO de EneRO,
bets are better bet in EuROs --
ROy can't bet: ROy's funds are FROze.)

F

     CROw

"Fi-ga-RO, Fi-ga-RO, Fi-ga-
RO, Fi-ga-RO, Fi-ga-RO, Fi-
ga-RO, Fi-ga-RO, Fi-gar-...(are
you who cROws those "FigaRO!"s 
FROm -glyphs, i.e., FROm hieROs...?)
...ga-RO, Fi-ga-RO, Fi-ga-RO...)

F-G

     S'ppose 

Fools sow oats at Mia FarROW's,
Fine-tooth comb her nappy 'FRO
     (an' 
Fan her Flush an' Fevered bROW)
     whilst 
dealing Frequent hands of FaROs
Flipping Bicycles, not taROTS
(Grab that crucifix! It's GeRO's.)
GROWing Greeks be freaks for GyROs,
GROWling, "How's your garden GROW...?"

H

Jesus...? He's the "He" who HarROWs,
HarROWS Him some saints an' HeROes
(this although He squirts a seR' hOse), 
HarROWs like there's no "tomairROWs,"
HarROWs Hell. (That Hunk's a pRO!)

I 

     (It's

vile, Is Isle of Doc MoREAU...
and Ikura Is salmon ROE.)

J 

Jury's out: did Jim* phone negROes --
Joes from BROoklyn, where a tree gROWs --
fROm extension 40 (fouR-Oh), 
Just to Jawbone Al Jar-REAU...?

     * Sgt. Jim N. Smithe-Magee

(the N stands for 'NepROmuk')

K 

King was Kill'd far, far fROm CaiRO

'cuz his eye was on the sparROW.
Martin, mi amigo caRO,
Keep us clear of war -- like WoodROW!

L 

   

Lou, aboard Achille LauRO,
Loved -- but failed -- to turn his taROT.
Had he so, he'd seen such sorROW
Launched when pirates take contROl.
(Losing Lunch of Leeks an' taRO
topp'd with carROts an' cilantRO,
Later Lou, too, Lost sang-fROid
an' -- LOL -- was Left to ROW.)

M 

James 'n' Mar'lyn: both MonROEs,

Mais, Merely one bROke bread chez CiRO's --
none at Cafe TROcadeRO.
(Also Missing: Tokyo ROse.)

N 

Gourmandette Ms Laura NyRO:

"Try the veal an' Nix the gyRO.

I'm Not old, yet I'm No tyRO,"
quoting Eco's Name O' ROse. 

O 

"Oremus!"…? Let us pray!

"OROmus!"…? Let us ROw!

("AROmas!”…? Let's let loose 

offensive odORs. Aprop(R)Os!)

P 

Mose' Plays Poker with the PhaRAOH:

"PaiR O' queens...? Pshaw: Treys...a Pai-R O'..."
Which Pal cheats...? Phone Hercule PoiROT.
(Stump'd in Po'ms, Pols rule in PROse:
is this why PhaRAOH's so moROse...?)

Q 

     "Que
RO-te, oi papai...QueRO,"

whispers Matt fROm MatamoROS.
Quiet Matt means "Te adoRO,
dude: your nose...? A dead, Red ROse."

R 

ROtten ROW...? 'Tis far fROm King's ROW.

Axl ROse ain't Marcus VarRO.
Abie's Irish ROse...? No ChaRO,
nor is Pete ROse Hank ThoREAU.

S 

Splittin'...? Shit! 'Tis Such Sweet SorROW.

Shall I Sit, till it be morROW...?
Think I'll drink Some Steins of StROH's,
then Search for clothes down Saville ROW.

T

     The

aeROdROme northeast of TruRO'S
now appROached by Taking MetRO.
There is wheR' JOsé "Quinn" TeRO
(so The song by JethRO Tull goes)
Taught The art of El ToreRO:
"Tora, Tora, Señor ToRO!"
Taunts José...as bull he ThROWs.

U

Quiz UngaRO, E. Rice BurROUGHs,

CiceRO, Great-Uncle SpiRO.
Bug Abe BurROWs, pRObe ShapiRO,
and, Until time's Up, De NiRO.
None -- not StavROs, not MiRÓ --
     can 
Understand those picaROs.

V 

VelcRO...? Vince Van Gogh Votes "SchmelcRO!"

W

     My 

Widdl' puppy -- Where, oh, WheR', OH...
Was his eye on Waters' sparROW...?
Wolf'd he too much dext- or sucROse...?
Will dogs Wag in Catfish ROW...?

X 

Xavier squats atop the PhaROs,

setting Xenophon's HieROas a polonaise-boleRO-
Xibelani dance for dobRO,
Xylophone an' Xalam -- oRO 
Deo...oRO por milagRO! 

Y

     Young 
Mary, Paul 'n' Peter YarROW:

if Youse Yells, "Ravel's BoléRO!"
while you're dancin' Day's "DanseRO..."?
Yeah! That would Yield SRO!

Z 

Zounds! The latest game fROm HasbRO

uses Zlotys, held in escROW:

Zoë's fours trounce ZorRO's  ZeROs --
after “Zixty-Zeven” thROWs.

The CoROllary

"Please, not," the Pope pleads,

"while I’m tellin' my beads..."

In Re: the Rules of the Games

     To
win at Acey-Deucey,
hang loose! Play loosey-goosey!

     Such  

state’s achiev’d, it’s now believ’d,
binge-viewing “I Love Lucy.”

     Who’d

play great games of Bocce
first must migrate to Karachi.

     There  

register as one “Monsieur
Wladziu Liberace.”

     One’s

dominance in Chess
(chess is a challenge, I confess) 

     requires, first

off, that rivals doff
unpleasant Chechen peasant dress.

     Who’d

call the shots at Draughts
shall swipe some decommission’d rafts,

     or purchase

some from my old chum who works as
counterman at Schraft’s.

     A

Euchre win’s your goal…?
Abandon random rigmarole.

     Begin by

sitting, briskly knitting,
‘neath a Tlingit totem pole.

     Your

kids you’d beat at Fish…? 

Just repeat, times three, this wish:

     “You lot shall 

play like Helen Hayes,
nor not like Dot or Lill’an Gish.”

     Who’d

stop his Go defeats,
needs to monitor three meets,

     and needs to

know the rules of Go.
(The truly ruthless player cheats.)

     To

“first” in Hare and Hounds
takes more than six or seven rounds.

     If you’re the

hare, exhibit flair:
railroad all rivals out of bounds!

     When you hear 

“I Spy something yellow,” 

play it cool: just coo (don't bellow),

     “What’s that

in your hand…? A Krugerrand…?
Good Lord! It’s Limoncello!”

     No

proper Janggi tourney
may be won without a journey.

     You are

not Korean…? I’m foreseein’
hirein’ an attorney.

     Who

loves Kings in the Corner
must (unless he’s born a fore’gner)

     learn the

state of play while watching (say)
Miss Muffet or Jack Horner.

     You’ll

like relearning Ludo.
First, though, take a class in judo.

     Then (though

it’s not nice) nick both the dice –
lest mucho ‘scudo you’d owe.

     Were

mastering Mahjong
to sound its sighing siren song,

     grab sev’ral

tiles – indeed, grab piles
and piles! (Would I direct you wrong…?)

     Who’d

shine at Nine Men’s Morris,
while avoiding suff’ring tsoris,

     merely

needs to own: “I’m not alone.”
Relax, bro! Join the chorus!

     To

medal in Othello
calls for top-notch personnel. Oh,

     yeah! (And

ev’ryone, when all is done,
says you’re one med’lin’ fellow.)

     To

mold Parcheesi mavens,
certain states establish havens.

     Just check

into one! Before you’re done
you’ll quench Parcheesi cravin’s.

     You’d

take the cup at Quoits
(which first-place trophy was Detroit’s)…?

      You’ll first re-

place the trophy case
(which case was formerly Jon Voigt’s).

     One’s

best approach to Risk…?
Keep all your operations brisk!

     Each piece a-

pace you must deploy –
and then destroy the royal fisc!

     The

winning round in Scrabble
will attract no hacks or rabble

     And the

dudes who win all go “all in.”
It’s only duds who dabble.

     You’d  

mess about with Twister….?
You had better watch it, mister!

     Your poor 

threadbare bott be not the spot
to cultivate a blister.

     Your

Uncle Wigg’ly player
(nor be none known to me feyer)

     wanders

in a rut, and’s nutty – but…
I’ll neither “Yea!” nor “Nay!” ‘er.

     Who

likes Paletti, Villa
(or vice versa) often will a-

     pprove some

other games with stranger names –
'Charibdis,' (say)…or ‘Scylla.’

     Who’d

set his sights on War…?
None but a nincompoop, Señor, 

     would grab a

gun. He’ll find no fun
gets won upon a foreign shore.

     Who

wins her “ins” in Xeko
sleeps on sheets by Marimekko.

     Plus, she

also owns five valve trombones
and keeps a speckl’d gecko.

     You

wish to win at Yahtzee…?
First, avoid the paparazzi:

     They’re so-o-o-o

hotsy-totsy, and ex-Nazi!
Join your local ROT-C!

     Zoom

Schwartz Profigliano.
Is this game for real…or guano…?

     It’s for

real – no schmooze –
play’d best with booze.
(Do not play man’-a-mano.)

Science Schmyence!

Once the whole world was
fire or earth, water or air.
That’s when God was head honcho.
Dissenters were rare.
Then a diff’rent reality
Albert E. bared:
it seems e equal’d m
times the speed of light squared.

Cast your mind back to Al,

him of mad-as-March hair.
To eschew Albert’s “view of the u”…?
Who dared dare…?
Yet some did disagree:
I, for one, bellow'd, “Merde!
Are you kiddin’ me…?
Energy’s m times c squared…?”

What else…? Dark matter, 

black holes and quarks everywhere...?

Leapin’ leptons, bad bosons...? 
Far fruitier fare...? 
My Old Testament cosmos
can ne’er be repair’d –
not when energy’s mass
times the speed of light squared.

Are there cosmoi in parallel…?

Damn’d if I care!
Does my clock slow
the faster I go…? C’est la guerre!
I’d prefer Al’d not shared.
I’d much rather be spared
each new round that compounds
“E be (zounds!) mc².”

A 'Sampler' Sampler

Kid lit icon: Little Black Sampler. 
David Berkowitz: Son of Sampler.
Brynner...? Yul’s the King of Siampler. 
Ersatz meat in cans…? That’s Spampler.

Looney Tunes’ Yosemite Sampler. 
Who Wants You…? It's Uncle Sampler.

Dr. Seuss’s Sampler-I-Ampler. 
Trojan malware virus…? Scampler.

Film Director Elia Kazampler.
Captain Marvel's now Shazampler.

Bin Laden Terrorist Osampler. 
60s Rocker Sampler the Shampler.

Golfing’s Sneed: that’s Slammin’ Sampler. 
Butterfly was Cio-cio-sanpler.

Rumpole’s scapegoat: Soapy Sampler. 
Is that the time…? I gotta scrampler.

Is This The GOP Senator From Idaho?

Jim E. De Ranty!
He can’t be shush’d, can he…?
Because, as does Dante,
perverse vigilante,
Jim views the world slanty
while, like some bacchante
well-oiled on Chianti,
he pads through his shanty
(Where…? Not Ypsilanti.)
lamenting, in chanty,
1, fortunes too scanty
(like those of Tom Canty),
2, gigs penny-ante
(like Armand Asante)
3, (laws non obstante)
all obstacles anti.
Jim has to recant (he
is too Corybanty,
too Oscar Levanty,
so rarely Hugh Granty)
before, like Mame (Aunty),
he sheds bra and pantie
and, gone gallavanty,
mounts one final rant:
“Ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eeee…!”

Seven Exquisite Corpses

The Prelude 

If 'e's were 'i's, 
would not 'exquisite corpse' 
be 'ixquisiti corpsi'...?
*Thus time warps.)

The Verses 

‘Hex’ (cute Pennsy-Dutch decor)...plus
‘Wiz’ (Oz oligarch of yore)...plus
‘seat’ (top spot when butts get sore)...plus
‘corpse’ (god damn cadaver).

‘Hecht's’ (defunct department store)...plus
‘Whiz’ (an ersatz cheese you pour)...plus
‘It’ (part Bow,* part Addams lore**)...plus
‘corpse’ (yes, ma'am: cadaver).
     * Clara the It Girl  
     ** The Addams Family's cousin It.

‘Egg’ (what comes before the chick)...plus
‘squeeze’ (a baseball buntman's trick)...plus
‘"Sit!"’ (command to Spot or Mick)...plus
‘corpse’ (grand-slam: cadaver).*

‘Aix’ (-lemagne, Char-* knew it best)...plus
‘quiz’ (your small exam, your test)...plus
‘zit’ (prompts adolescent's jest)...plus
‘corpse’ (no scam: cadaver). 
     * I.e., Charlemagne’s Aachen 

‘Haig's’ (‘This stuff's all own’d by Al...’)...plus
‘Swiss’ (not unlike Emmenthal)...plus
‘hit’ (...but who could shoot a pal...?)...plus
‘corpse’ (lost lamb: cadaver).

‘Aches’ (first fruits of one's malaise)...plus
‘oui!’ (like 'si!' but en Francaise)...plus
‘Sid’ (from TV's golden days*)...plus
‘corpse’ (Shazam! cadaver). 
     * Caesar (the comic not the emperor)

‘X’ (Abu Kamil's* unknown)...plus
‘wheeze’ (how labor’d breathing's shown)...plus
‘zed’ (the final letter sown)...plus
‘corpse’ (Go! Scram, cadaver!) 
     * One of the many Arabic algebr'ists

The Coda 

So: what is all this..? Mere palaver.
Though exquisite, you can have 'er.
Just a visit from Breton
(the Dada Wiz...?) You'd best move on.

Sheep in Three Colors

Do you remember this pair of Republican rams 
and one ewe from back when the GOP was still 
the GOP?

     Herman Cain 

Blah, blah, Black Sheep: 
when'd you shed your wool...?
Years ago...? Back then, my bro, 
you still laid low at school.
Or did you wait to clean your pate 
till post your pizza thing...?
Or do you bald once fondling's call'd...? 
['Hair'assment's so-o-o right-wing.]

     Rick Perry

Oops! Oops! Orange Sheep: 
use your finger rule:
One...? That's Commerce. Two...? That's Ed. 
Now, three... [Debates are cruel.]
So, whatcha call that camp you own...? 
(Its name’s the racial slur.) 
Say, "African-Amer'can-Head"...? 
Would "Black-Head" you prefer…?

     Michele Bachmann

Yadda, yadda...Yellow sheep: 
your husband's someone's fool.
Claims gays be Huns, "barbariuns": 
he'd drag 'em through his "school."
Is his a school for scandal...? 
Sure it is, if Marc proves gay.
(And, based on YouTube videos, 
the guy's well on his way.)

My Band-Box Bed Back Home

     I’ve access’d
air springs and adjustables, berths,
bunk beds, box springs, too.

     Black’d out in

bassinets, chaise longues, cots, cradles,
Chesterfields (a few).

     I’ve dozed on

davenports, divans, duvets, on
daybeds trimm’d in chrome.

     And still the

best bed ever slept in’s been my
band-box bed back home.

     I’ve taken

ease on ebeds, eastern kings, fulls,
futons, four four posters.

     Gouch’d on

gurneys, The Great Bed of Ware (who
claims they’ve done be boasters).

     Hibe’d in  

hot racks, hammocks, hideaways – one
hassock fill’d with foam.

     And still the

best bed ever slept in’s been my
band-box bed back home.

     I’ve hid in

infant cribs, inflatables. I
once jump’d on a junior. (!)

     Knelt on

kinderbeds, kips, Kang bed-stoves (than
which no beds be loonier).

     Loung’d on

lecti geniales (trundles
once the rage in Rome). 

     And still the

best bed ever slept in’s been my
band-box bed back home.

     I’ve made up

Murphys, moon’d on manjaas, napp’d in 

nests and narcolits.

     Poop’d out on

orthopeds and ottomans…and
pallets (they’re the pits!).

     I’ve plopp’d on

platforms, palanquins and pillows – 

as has Jakob Broehme.

     And still the

best I’ve ever slept in’s been my
band box back home.

     Quiesced on

queens with quilts, on roll-aways, re-
lax’d on rope-strung racks.

     Sawn wood on

sofas, Sertas, Sealys. Stretch’d out 

some in sleeping sacks.

     Turned in on 

Therma-Rests, twins, upper berths, up-

holst’r’ds…with a gnome!

     And still the

best bed ever slept in’s been my 

band-box bed back home.

     I’ve valued

Vi-Springs and vibrating beds (I
melt ‘neath Magic Fingers).

     Waked on

water beds and Weevacs (déjà

vu of two still lingers).

     X through 

Z…? I’ve zoned in none, though web I’ve
surf’d and globe I’ve roam’d.

     And still the

best bed ever slept in’s been my
band-box bed back home.

Pick a Pair (But Not of Buds) or Hommages a Rivers: an ABV ABC & a Draft on Drafts

Today's post is a reboot from several years ago. Here's hoping it still rings true. (If you, constant reader, spot any inaccuracies, please don't hesitate to report them.)


A is for Aass Bock. Percent...? Six point five.
B is for Bush: 12%! (Sakes alive!)

C is for Celis Pale Bock: three point nine.
D is for Duvel: it's practically wine!

E is for Enville Ale: four point five...? Great!
F is for Frankenheim Alt: four point eight.

G is for Gaffel Kölsch: four point eight…nu?
H...? For HB Mai-Bock: seven point two!

I's for Iceni Four Grains: four point two.
J's Jeanne D'Arc Belzebuth: fifteen! (Who knew...?)

K is for Kneitinger Bock: six point O.
L's Lion Stout: eight point two. (Just say "Know!")

M's for Mac Queen's Nessie: seven point three.
N is for Newcastle: some prefer tea.

O's Oberdorfer Wiessbier: four point nine.
P's Pater Lieven Blond: six point five...? Fine.

Q is for Queen's Knickers: ABV...? Eight!
Rodenbach Grand Cru...? 'Tis four/eight...by weight.

Sam Adams Triple Bock...? Seventeen five!
(Beer geeks pour three or four; so few survive.)

T is for Tomintoul Stag: four point one.
(Tell me the truth: are we yet having fun...?)

Unibroue Quelque Chose...? Eight point oh: strong!
V's Vieux Temps: five point oh...unless I'm wrong.

Whitbread Gold Label...? It's ten...that, and more.
X is Xingu: less than five; more than four.

Y's for Young's Waggle Dance: five point O one.
Z's for Zambezi: That's lager! We're done. 




A is for Aass Bock. (Norwegian, no doubt.)

B is for Brooklyn – their Black Chocolate Stout.

C is for Cains, one "formidable" brew.
D is for Dock Street: they, too, brew Grand Cru.

E is for Everard's Daredevil Ale.
F is for Wassail. (Its full name's Full Sail.)

G is for Great Lakes – their Dortmunder Gold.
H is for Hellers Wiess – Kolschbier, we're told.

I's for Im Fuschen Alt. Hoppy...? Oh, my!
J is for Jever: their Pilsener's dry.

K is for Kostritzer Schwarzbier – it's black!
L is for Lion Stout, lacks not arrack.

M's for McMullen: their Castle Ale's pale.
N is for Newcastle's popular ale.

O is for Orval: don't serve it too cold.
P is for Portland's Mactarnahan's: gold!

Q is for Quail Springs' OK IPA.
R is for Rodenbach Grand Cru: hurray!

S is for Stoudt's Pils: it finishes dry.
T's Three Tuns Clerics Cure. (Three tuns...? But...why...?)

U is for Unibroue Quelque Chose (cherry).
V is for Vieux Temps. It's sherbety...very!

W's Wadi Brau Lady Hanf Weisse.
X is Xingu – few Brazilian brews nicer.

Y's for Young's Waggle Dance – brewed using honey.
Z's for Zhong Hua: has no tap here...? Not funny!

Sounds of the Season: a Preview

Xmastide! What fun to ride! 
Ye faithful hear 'adeste,'
while tots hear Nick shout 'Blitzen.' 
(No way’s Xmas second-best day!)
How sweet the sound of 'candy canes' 
eclipsing 'lic’rice whips,'
as 'dreidel,' although Jewish, 
slips (flips, drips) through Xian lips.
An 'elf'’s heard come December 
(far less frequently come June),
while 'French hen'’s sounded solely 
in that Partridge-Pear-Tree tune.

Is 'greensleeves' just an Xmas word…? 
Vaughn Williams never hinted.
Unheard is 'handbell' till 
the Xmas choral program’s printed.
An 'ivy'’s sung alongside 'holly.' 
Such a jolly pairing!
Nor’s 'jingle,' juxtaposed with 'bells,' 
held seasonally daring.
Noms Noël…? I’m hearing 'Kringle' 
even in the loo.
And 'lords a-leaping.' 
(Partridge-Pear-Tree-wise, we’re all all through.)

'Mistletoe,' unheard befo’e, 
runs wild midst mild Decembers.
'Nativity' trumps ev’ry child – 
September’s child, November’s…
Phrases feat’ring ‘O’s resound 
all ‘round our Xmas trees: “O Tannen-
baum...,” “O Little Town...,” “O Holy Night...” 
(I cite in threes).
'Poinsett’a' popcorns off the walls, 
and not just walls of florists,
while 'quismas' exits mouths of babes 
in other parts of forests.

As Autry croons his 'Rudolph' 
and Torme his 'Chestnuts' renders,
we check their noses: 
have those nuts and reindeer been on benders…?
Good folks forbid all talk of 'tinsel' 
till their trees they’re trimmin.’ 
Only outres utter 'unto us…' – 
not normal men and women.
Is 'Vixen' ever heard 
in vernal conversations…? Nope.
(Were 'Wenceslaus' heard ‘round our house, 
abandon’d be all hope.)

Is ‘krissmiss' meant or 'exmiss,' 
when you 'Merry Xmas' hear…?
Not 'exmiss,' surely!
'Krissmass' purely bursts upon the ear.
Those 'yule's you may encounter 
in October (linked to 'logs')
have less to do with Xmas 
than with tales of shaggy dogs.
'Zwarte Piet'…? It’s indiscreet: 
Dutch racialism, right…?
Now…Merry Xmas! Bless us everyone! 
To all: goodnight!

Yves Has At 'Em: a Riddle Rewrite

As Yves was mot'ring toward St. Ives,
he pass’d a guy with seven wives.
(Imagine what a Hausfrau drives.)
Each “better half” held seven hives
she'd subdivided, using knives.
Each bride had sliced those into fives --
the bees sent fleeing for their lives,
each executing seven dives
(if spook’d, an insect truly strives:
it’s how each at-risk hive survives.
In last analysis, it thrives)
each dive a writhe of seven jives,
set free, each, from confining gyves.
Gyves, jives, dives, lives,
fives, knives, hives, drives –
plus just one guy, though seven wives.
So: how few motor'd toward St. Ives...?