Poet Poe pens nonsense verse. "Plus...phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." Its gamut runs from spam to worse. The po'sy posted...? Poe's diverse -- most, postcards from his universe, replies to grudges he must nurse. My summary...? Let me be terse: a mitzva, mostly. (Not a curse.)
The Walrus and the Neonate
Perambulate their nabe.
“Not
one more lap without your map!
Who's snatch'd my astrolabe…?”
The
Walrus thinks. “This precinct stinks!"
Prates tot, "It's got you, babe.”
The Walrus and Madame Defarge:
Beneath the
guillotine
Nigh which
they’ve stray’d, they hitch its blade,
Which seems extremely
keen.
“Let's shave aristos,” whistles she.
“Voila!
Well-oil’d machine.”
 |
| "Two Suckers" chemical marker on copy paper by Ulysses Poe |
Sucrose on a
stick. (It tastes so
good!)
The Loser Sucker.
Vote! (You vote, you
lick it! Under-
stood...?)
The Walrus and the Ombudsman
Suspend their morning jog.
“You lag, Milord,” the Walrus roar'd.
"You've slow'd us to a slog."
“You're Dynamo,” quoth Señor O.
“Me…?
I'm El Underdog.”
"Be All You Can Be"
-- Former Army recruiting slogan
Long-haul truckers…? Could be cruisers.
They
ain’t suckers. They ain’t losers.
Snoozers
should be sitting duckers.
Losers...? Nope! Nor be they suckers.
Pass-the-buckers
might be schmoozers.
They
ain’t suckers. They aint losers.
Musers...? Right! They're thunderstruckers.
Losers...? Nope! Nor be they suckers.
Oyster
shuckers can turn oozers.
They
ain’t suckers. They ain’t losers.
Beggar'd ruckers can’t be choosers.
Still, not suckers. Nor, yet, losers.
Texan Cruzers...? Some seem schmuckers.
They
ain’t losers. They ain’t suckers.
Rural Hoosiers...? Few be chuckers.
They
ain’t losers. They ain’t suckers.
Now your POTUS has reveal’d:
dying on some foreign field
turns you loser, makes you suck.
WTF,
Drumpf…?! WTF...?!
The Walrus and the Quietist
To pilgrimage aspired.
Posed Walrus, “Say! Let’s leave today…
Unless your dogs be tired.”
Can't! Thank this cyst,” the Quietist
Return'd, “my sole's acquired.”
The Walrus and the Prostitute
Patroll'd the Tenderloin,
A-reminiscing all the while
Of General Burgoyne.
"'Gent John' rejoiced in drabs," Jen* voiced.
John blew a slew of coin."
* Perhaps Jenny Diver from John Gay's
"The Beggars' Opera"...?
The
Walrus and the Radical
Enblurb their urban street.
“Quote: 'Ave...? Ain't mean.' (From all we’ve seen,
With
business 'tis replete.)"
Yet, "IT’S ABLAZE!!" ignites today’s
Drumpf trump’d up White House tweet.
The Walrus and the QAnon
Believer hit
the road.
And, while
they do, they style their coup.
(They speak
in secret code.)
Their place
de plot…? Which chamber pot
holds dumps in Drumpf’s commode...?
* Ulysses Poe, nonsense poetaster and author of What A's Not For
** Ogden Nash, poet of light verse featuring unconventional rhyme schemes
*** Lewis Carroll, composer of "The Hunting of the Snark"
 |
"Twin Pins" table-top image by amateur photographer Ulysses Poe |
"Consider the Snark"
Verse nonsense of Carroll’s...
which we might not possess
if it weren't for amateur photographer
Charles Dodgson’s fascination with the work’s
young dedicatee Gertrude Chataway, as he was
similarly with young Alice Liddell, young Xie Kitchin,
young Bea Hatch and other innocent middle-class underage...
...Victorian gairls.
The Walrus and the Tamarin
Advance to Marvin Gardens.
"Mein Herr," touts Tam, "I bear fruit jam.
Enjoy some, 'fore it hardens."
"Unless it's plum," responds her chum,
"I'll leg it, begging pardons."
The Walrus and the Scorpion,
Two guests at Mobile's Ball,
Sit, by some chance (strange circumstance),
like flowers 'long a wall
When blurts the bug, "Let's cut a rug...
'Less y'all prong'd palps appall."
To Cole…? Mr. Porter, this verse is pour vous.
Let
Coo…? You are hereby allow’d to bill, too.
El
Toco…? A matador famed for his grit.
C’e’t Loo…? “’Tis a bog” – one half Frog, one half Brit.
T.
E. Cool…? One more Lawrence clone -- this one’s a rapper…
Et
Loco…? …and crazy, too – albeit dapper.
Oleo
Ct…? The amount of faux butter.
Ol’
Cote…? Ancient ke-keep for bi-birds. (I stutter.)
Oct.
Leo…? The Lion in Fall, not in Summer.*
“Celt…?
Oo-…”…? This stuff’s Gaelic, a wa-a-ay diff’rent drummer.
Toe
Loc…? Your pinkie’s location (in brief).
'Lo
et Co…? J.Lo’s new corporation’s motif.
* Leo's dates are 7/23 to 8/22, smack dab in the middle of
Summer. An October Leo occurs sometime in the Fall. (Nor, of
course, is he The Lion in Winter.)
Col. Eto...? The Japanese Charge D'affaire.
Co-'otel...? A twin inn nextdoor. Aren't they a pair...?
Le Coot...? Some old bird boasting feathers...or not.
To Cleo...? Hey, Nile Queen! Look what all I've wrought!
CEO Lot…? Bible’s first chief exec.
O’Tolce…? Irish fam’ly -- not Chechen, not Czech.
Cot Olé…? Cheer for bullfighter, bray’d from your bed.
Ocelot…? Careful! That cat’s not been fed.
Coda
This postscript I add as a brief afterthought:
My bolt, anagram-wise, on 'ocelot''s shot!
