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Saturday, October 31, 2020

Runcibl'd Spooner: Another "I Lack Fives" Matter...?

Your final exam now is over.
(You need ne'er again bear such a grilling.) 
Pencils down!
     You owe Mr. Washington twenty.
D'you intend to him lend ev'ry shilling...?
Denzel's poun.'
     Moral:
Lay back! Pay back!

Friday, October 30, 2020

Runcibl'd Spooner: Flubb'd Med

Some iffy stuff -- hydroxl kin -- 
concerning which Trump lied:
hydroxychloroquine.
A bit of fluff of Mr. Quinn; 
say "hi" to Roxie Clyde:
Clyde, Roxie -- whore o' Quinn.
     Moral:
Rx/Rox: half mends, half mocks.

Thursday, October 29, 2020

Runcibl'd Spooner: Very Barry

The pol’s name's pronounced;
the applause inflates faster:
“Barack Obama!”
     BaroqueFest announced
by a stammering 'caster:
“Ba-Bach-o-Rama!”
     Moral:
Brothers (bros) and sisters (sisses) 
miss the man -- and miss his Mrs.

Wednesday, October 28, 2020

Self "Poe"trait

 


Runcibl'd Spooner: Gnothi Ventur'd, Gnothi Gain'd

     
They had
Plato. They had Aristotle.
Crikey! They had
Socrates:
     in
ancient Greece, each
sage ruled philo-
sophical au-
tocracies.
     Moral:
Gnothi sauton -- or know the reason why!

Tuesday, October 27, 2020

Baby, It's COV'D Outside: Pre-Flu-Season's Greetings or Rounding the Coroner



Dash off hums for the holidays…?
Lord knows I’ve tried
to so metamorph “Baby, it’s 
COV’D outside”
into NoĆ«ls of nonsense to 
pleasures provide,
but it’s tough wielding “Baby, it’s 
COV’D outside.”



Memes like 'hydroxychloroquine,' 
e.g., I’ve eyed,
to inject into “Baby, it’s 
COV’D outside.”
Even channel’d Frank Loesser as 
metrical guide
to blue-pencil my “Baby, it’s 
COV’D outside.”

I have plagiarized "Jingle Bells"
("...what fun... to ride...")
which I bundled with "Baby, it's 
COV'D outside."
Then I deftly "White Christmas"'s
mush modified
so's to dovetail with "Baby, it's 
COV'D outside."

When with copyright counsels
I chanced to collide 
(might some sue me for "Baby it's
COV'D outside"...?),
I was forced to, through New Year's,
in Reno reside:
bookies there ignored "Baby, it's 
COV'D outside."

At wits' end -- the while hoping that
elf hadn't died --
I wrote Santa re "Baby, it's 
COV'D outside."
By return mail, sign'd "Jekyll," (was 
I Mr. Hyde...?)
he wrote, "Can't help, ya, baby: there's
COV'D outside."

As an effort -- last ditch! -- I to
POTUS applied
that I hoped to help "Baby, it's 
COV'D outside"
become music Americans
warbled with pride. 
In predictable fashion, the
president lied:

"But Obama's a fore'gner: with 
Biden he spied!
But Bent Hill'ry's a porn'er: she's  
nasty; she's snide!
But if only we'd tested less 
(we do more testing than
practically anyone)
none would have died!

But we've rounded the corner -- I'll
toot my own horn here -- we've
rounded the corner -- 
hey! Don't be a scorner! -- we've
rounded the corner: there's
no need to hide 'cuz we've
rounded the corner: no
COV'D outside."

A Limerick on Queneau's "Exercises in Style" (from "Exercises in Style: The Poetic Supplement," Number 263)




There was a young buck 'board a bus
who, when bruis'd 'bout his shanks, broach'd a fuss.
Later on, dans Le Cour,
his valet observ'd, "Your
coat's lapel button fixin' needs...thus!"

Runcibl'd Spooner: Mondo Mundo

Life has grown tiresome,
monotonous, humdrum,
repetitive, boring...
mundane.
I've beleaguer'd New Hampshire,
appeal'd to Montana:
on Monday a week I'll
dun Maine.
     Moral:
Seek and you'll be fined.

Monday, October 26, 2020

"Quatrain For Queneau": An Anagram Poem on 'Raymond Queneau' (from "Exercises in Style: The Poetic Supplement," Number 264)

     The second half of line one along with each of the 
six subsequent half lines of the quatrain are anagrams of 
the first half of line one -- i.e., of 'Raymond Queneau.'
Additionally, as proper quatrains should consist of a pair 
of rhyming couplets, "Q For Q" follows that prescription
with what can be seen as faux eye rhymes -- 'drum' and
'(quo)rum' and '(Mon)day' and 'quay,' though 'quay' is
properly pronounced 'kee,' thus the faux eye rhyme 
designation. 

Raymond Queneau, 
ye neon aqua drum.
Damn! You 'n' a queer 
need a -- any! -- quorum.
O Ray! Manque (nude) 
ran queue Monday.
Mary, Queen o' Duna: 
Mud...? Ne'er on a quay!

A Pantoum on Queneau's "Exercises in Style" (from "Exercise in Style: The Poetic Supplement," Number 265)

'Tis mid-day rush. I board an S-line bus.
I'm standing on the platform at the back.
A long-neck'd cove of 26 complains:
"Commuters! Must you deal my shins a thwack...?"

I'm standing on the platform at the back.
Monsieur Le Plaindre sports a silly hat.
"Commuters! Must you deal my shins a thwack...?"
Some string sits where his hat band should be at.

Monsieur Le Plaindre sports a silly hat.
His neck's too long; his tone's a sniv'lling drone.
Some string sits where his hat band should be at.
I spot him later; he is not alone.

His neck's too long; his tone's a sniv'lling drone.
A vacant seat...? He makes himself at home.
I spot him later; he is not alone.
He's in discussion, near the Cour de Rome.

A vacant seat...? He makes himself at home.
Then he's away. 'Cross town he must have raced.
He's in discussion near the Cour de Rome:
"That button on your coat's so poorly placed."

Runcibl'd Spooners: Comes the Dawn + Chums o' Don

Comic Brit --
one fa-a-ar from poorest:
Dawn French.
Bambi tinkles in the forest:
Fawn drench.
     Moral:
Antic goon...?
Meet antler'd 'toon.

It's taken some* 'til '20 
to acknowledge: 
Black Lives Matter!
McConnell...? He's Life's 
kidney, life's urethra... 
Mac...? Life's bladder.
     Moral:
Life's a Mitch.

     * J. Kushner and D. Drumpf 
not among them.

Litany Chanted Over Schrƶdinger's Box

Is he dead yet...? 'Yes' or 'No'...?  All'd 'God Bless!' if 'Yes,' you know.  Is he dead yet...? Don...