More "Hat/Cattle" Moronics

Six slugs sail'd straight through, 

leaving zilch residue:
All (rat-a-tat-) tat and no shrapnel.

On Beyond Oz or Over, Under, Around & Through the Rainbow: an Alphabet

With L. Frank's Tin Woodman the sagas don't stop.

There are umpteen -Tin Woodmen. Let's start at the top:

The Au GraTin Woodman, as do all his kin,

nine-to-fives it: they're loggers in woodlands wherein
flourish maples and ashes and hickory trees,
all a-blooming with half-wheels and wedges of cheese.

The BulleTin Woodman reveals breaking news

concerning his fringe controversialist views.

(His Vatican counterpart's mode is the bull;

the pair are past masters at pullin' the wool.)

The Woodman who's known as CatocTin fells trees

in the Blue Ridge -- oaks, junipers -- does so with ease.

He'd never log redwoods, not just 'cuz they're old:

he regards 'em World Wonders. "They're not to be sold!"

The DusTin Woodman, like the JusTin Woodman (see below),

loves nothing more than fisticuffs: he lives for "blow-by-blow."

With JusTin, DusTin builds a ring within a forest clearing.

Poor DusTin's cauliflower ears have left him hard of hearing.

The ExeunTin' Woodmen bid the timberlands "Bye-bye!" --

most often when they've only just arrived. (I can't say why.)

They claim they feel they've gotta go and then they've gotta stay.

(They're no far cry from Jimmy "Schnozz" Durante in that way.)

The FerriTin Woodman, like all living things,

carries iron in his blood -- and the health iron brings.

(It goes without saying, of course, that he must

assume fail-safe precautions to guard against rust.)

The GelaTin Woodman's all wiggly 'n' quivv'ry,

all squirmy 'n' twitchy, all shudd'ry 'n' shivv'ry.

In short, this guy's one hyper-jittery fellow --

for all the world not unlike chokeberry Jello.

The Woodman ID'd HighfaluTin...? Ornate!

In place of his tin he sports stainless steel plate.

I'd not dub him pompous, albeit he's bold:

one metalsmith promised to glaze him in gold.

The IvermecTin Woodman is a fan of Donald Drumpf.

He follows Trump's misinformation. End result...? A slumpf

in health and strength; his vital signs head south; he almost dies.

I ask the man, "What part of this do you not get: 'Drumpf lies'...?"

The JusTin Woodman (see above), 

as noted, shows unbounded love

for pugilism -- fests de slug.

Our boy has caught the boxing bug.

 

Near Emerald Forest I've heard there's a tarn

on the shoreline of which sits a sheep-shearing barn 

where my kin KnitTin' Woodman hoards gathers of yarn.

Do text him when you've threadbare slippers to darn.

The Liquor Tin Woodman -- no teetot'ler, he --

has a tummy well chamber'd to stockpile his "tea."

His "tea tins" he calls 'em, but we know that booze

be the bev'rage within 'em, a view that's no news.

 

The MasturbaTin' Woodman, Hansel/Gretel-like, doles out

some something through the woods to help the lad retrace his route.

It clearly isn't breadcrumbs we see scatter'd on the soil.

Perhaps it's clear hydraulic, gear or light transmission oil. 

Trong thuốc lá NicoTin Woodman cũng 

giúp an thần, tỉnh táo và trầm -- mung mung.

Ở một khía cạnh nào đó, nicotine 

cũng giúp điều trị căn bệnh...(Where've ya been...?)

The OvalTin(e) Woodman... 

The PecTin Woodman...

The QuenTin Woodman... 

The RaspuTin Woodman...

The SaTin Woodman...

The TinTin Woodman...? Gatherer of news

who deals in what?s, when?s, where?s, why?s, how?s 'n' who?s.

He sings the news; he belts it brash 'n' bluesy.

(His "Ten-Ton Tann'd Tin Tune"'s a freakin' doozy.)

The UnguenTin(e) Woodman...

The Vlad'mir PuTin Woodman... 

The WesTin Woodman... 

The XiTin Woodman...

The YachTin' Woodman...

The ZeaTin Woodman...

Heil, Herr Fred or Dies Ist Das Search

Dies ist Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.

     Dies ist Das Storeroom secured with new locks

in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.

    Dies ist Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks

that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks

in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.

     Dies sind assortments of unsorted Socks

sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks

that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks

in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.     

     Dies sind Das Surfeits of classified docs,

some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks

sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks

that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks

in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.

     Dies...? Die Container Crates -- each a big box --

spotted shelt'ring Die Surfeits of classified docs,

some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks

sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks

that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks

in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.

     Dies sind Die Feds, making nary Das Sound

as they, armed with Das Warrant, go searching around

for Die packing Container Crates -- each a big box --

spotted shelt'ring Die Surfeits of classified docs,

some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks

sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks

that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks

in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.

     Dies ist His Honor who issues Das Warrant

requested by Justice, which loosens Das Torrent

of FBI agents, who make not Das Sound

as they, armed with Das Warrant, go searching around

for Die packing Container Crates -- each a big box --

spotted shelt'ring Die Surfeits of classified docs,

some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks

sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks

that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks

in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.

     Dies ist Das Nation where holds court the judge

who gives Das Green Light (with no hint of Das Grudge

or political bias) and issues Das Warrant

requested by Justice, which loosens Das Torrent

of FBI agents, who make not Das Sound

as they, armed with Das Warrant, go searching around

for Die packing Container Crates -- each a big box --

spotted shelt'ring  Die Surfeits of classified docs,

some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks

sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-sescrowed stocks

that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks

in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don John, Don, rocks.

     Dies ist Don Don John whose administration

endangers, imperils and hazards Das Nation,

Das Balkanized Country where holds court Der Judge

who gives Das Green Light (with no hint of Das Grudge

or political bias) and issues Das Warrant

requested by Justice, which loosens Das Torrent

of FBI agents, who make not Das Sound

as they, armed with Das Warrant, go searching around

for Die packing Container Crates -- each a big box --

spotted shelt'ring Die Surfeits of classified docs,

some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks

sitting stashed in the safe hiding un-escrowed stocks

that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks

in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don Don John rocks.

     Dies ist Der Domnus, Das craven old Con

who peculates millions while siring Der Don,

who swaps love for money -- Das poor Pro Quo Quid --

and, thus "Kruppted," winds up wid Das oversized Id

and Das self-serving Ego which hazards Das Nation

(conspiring, 'tis true, with his administration),

Das Balkanized Country where holds court Der Judge

who gives Das Green Light (with no hint of Das Grudge

or political bias) and issues Das Warrant

requested by Justice, which loosens Das Torrent

of FBI agents, who make not Das Sound

as they, armed with Das Warrant, go searching around

for Die packing Container Crates -- each a big box --

spotted shelt'ring Das Surfeits of classified docs,

some seen stuffed in assortments of unsorted Socks

sitting stashed in Das Safe hiding un-escrowed stocks

that squats in Das Storeroom secured with new locks

in Die Depths of Das Donjon where Don Don John rocks.

...But Sombody's Gotta Do It.

It's up to me which words go where:
this word goes here; that word goes there.
Some po'ms grow big; some po'ms stay small.
Hey! I'm The Poet, after all.

Though aping Edgar's "...nothing more,"

I mean to say there's things galore.

It's what they label 'irony.'

And I'm The Poet, don'cha see...?

I Emily's "I could not stop..."

restate, for I'm The Nation's Scop.

I Walt's "Myself I sing" re-shout.

That I'm The Poet there's no doubt.

Some po'ms are sung; some po'ms are penn'd.

And I'm The Poet, in the end.

Yes, I'm The Poet, come what may,

though I've not got a thing to say.

What's New in Poe's "Hat/Cattle" Catalog & Among Runcibl'd Spooners

     New "Hat/Cattle" Chatter

Sergeant Friday's a cop, an abrupt one full stop.

Hear him gripe: "Just the facts, ma'am; no tattle!"

Though her atria's chill'd, she's prepared to be thrill'd

to her cor: She's all heart (though no cockles).

With Rice Krispies I find I like only one kind.

Forget Pop: I'm all Snap and no Crackle.

He brings signs to each march and his slogans are arch,

never dull. He's all that, but no catalyst. 

She'll not wriggle one hair, much less fly through the air.

She's immobile: all halt and no cartwheel. 

Donald's evil's like cancer. For Don, love's no answer,

That's Drumpf: he's all hate and no cuddle.

A Bell Witch/Quay blend,* she's for sure no one's friend.

Fire burn: she's all haunt and no Casper.

     * The Bell Witch haunts an area in Tennessee; Minnie Quay 

is a legendary ghost spooking Michigan. "Fire burn..." is part 

of a couplet chanted by the Weird Sisters in Shakespeare's 

Macbeth. 

If Dad laughs at all, his laugh's big, never small.
That's our Dad: he's all "HA!" and no chortle.

She's, when tough love's requir'd, ne'er in pull'd punches mired.

Best to duck: she's all hit and no coddle.

His applause is sedate. Meet Monsieur Understate.

In the end, he's all hint and no catcall.

     More Runcibl'd Spooners

Ernest's famous six-word story. 

Must four small "cetes" cede hirsute glory...?* 

For sale: baby shoes, never worn / Four whale babies soon (Never!) shorn.

     * In the sense of 1 Corinthians 11:15 "If a woman have hair it is a glory to her." 

Attacking those "giants" keeps Don in fine fettle.

He fades before factories coated in metal. 

     Tilting at windmills / Wilting at tinn'd mills 

Where Drumpf dreams up his latest fraud.

The adult stage of household god.

     Mar-a-lago / Lar imago 

More "Hat/Cattle" materials (some per GFH)

helot 

hatchet 

half-wit

habit 

Hamlet

hamlet 

high-hat 

height

hot

haut

hut

hoot

hurt

hint

Hants

Holt

host

hunt

haste

Hearst

haft

heft

hart

'hast'

Hecht

heat

hilt

hint

hoist

Hoyt

catch-all 

Katzenjammer kids

catamaran

Katmandu

Catskills

catnip

catnap

curdle

cordial

All hat and no atelier

All hat and no cabal
All hat and no cackle
All hat and no catapult
All hat and no catcall
All hat and no cachalots
All hat and no cachet
All hat and no cadaver
All hat and no cakes and ale
All hat and no campanile
All hat and no can do
All hat and no canticle
All hat and no Cantinflas
All hat and no captives
All hat and no castle
All hat and no casuistry
All hat and no Cat at All
All hat and no catafalque
All hat and no cataleptic
All hat and no Catalhoyuk
All hat and no Catalonia
All hat and no catapult
“All Hat and No Kettle”
All hat and no catcall
All hat and no caterpillar
All hat and no Cathay
All hat and no Catland
All hat and no Cattle of the Sun
All hat and no cattle prod
All hat and no chasuble
All hat and no chattel
All hat and no cuttlefish
All hat and no gaggle
All hat and no kettle
All hat and no kleagle
All hat and no Quetzalcoatl
All hat and no tattle
All hats and no capitals
All hats and no caput

...or not!

Seven waltzes penn'd Bach -- plus one sprightly ceroc.
These works' keys...? All A-flat, none A nat'ral. 

Doodhpak, shrikhand, chaas, dal; roti, farsan et al...

Fare found where...? Gujarat. (Not Seattle.)

A Final Four-Fold Foray into "Hat/Cattle" Folderol

     Letter ç appears to be pronounced something like 

/ch/ in the Turkmen word 'çal,' meaning 'grey' in that 

language. The neologism 'çalcells' as a Turkmen-Anglo 

hybrid refers to the brain in an Agatha Christie sense 

of (little) grey cells. In The Big Sleep we hear Chandler's 

hero comment on the locale's ratio of guns to gray 

matter -- all of which leads to the first of another 

(possibly final...?) series of "hat/cattle" verses.

Philip Marlowe: "My, my! Glut of guns! No brains! Why...?

Don'cha know...? It's all gats and no çalcells."

There be basins in France where Typhaceae plants

fail to grow: they're all jattes and no cattails.

Dumpty Drumpf dumpsters docs. Guilty...? Down to his socks! 

Drumpf must go! He's all rat: no acquittal!

Some fraternities quash any hazing of frosh.

Mu Tau Rho's one: all frat and no paddle.

Further "Hat/Cattle" Nonsense

     Regular readers of the PW²L blog will have noted 

its editor's ongoing insistence upon strict meters being 

maintained in the verses of Ulysses Poe. Such insistence 

acknowledges as intentional the stress on the second 

syllable of the final word in each of the three verses below

and, as such, its being a departure from the poet's earlier 

practice of stress placement, instead, on the first syllable 

of that final word. It's and example of the accentual 

difference between 'cattle' and 'cartel.'    

When I deal my own drugs, dodging syndicate thugs,

people say, "You're all khat, no cartel."

     Were it mine to decide who'd become Clunes's bride,

in I'd weigh: "Always Catz, no Cadell."*

     * In ten seasons of ITV's "Doc Martin," one might have 

from time to time wondered which actress -- Caroline Catz 

as Louisa Glasson or Selena Cadell as Sally Tishell -- would 

wind up with Martin Clunes's Doctor Martin Ellingham...? 

     Although scops from the Indies with indigo bindis

say "Nay!," they're all Bhat, no Patel.

I, re winos and wine, "Cattle/Hat"-wise opine:

"They're no Tait-(tinger), all muscatel." 

Since, of stuff cetyl's in, most is bad for your skin,

let's roar throaty: "All wax! And no cetyl!"

 

     Does Mambrino's gold helm* make a knight of the realm

of Quixote -- all hat and no kettle...?

     * The Golden Helmet of Mambrino is, in fact, perhaps 

less a kettle than a barber's shaving basin, but...what 

the hey!

"Hat/Cattle" Varia (Images)

Soup Spooners, S(o)uper Spooners & the Very S(o)upest of Spooners

Our legacy. Our cult'ral loot. 

She'd toss'd it at the Institute....? 

     World Heritage / Hurl'd where...? At IDGE*...?

          * Institute for the Development of Gifted Education

Finer weather (note the trending). 

Dined together; spoke of lending.

     Better tomorrow / Met her to borrow

Causin' pains to go away,

just not by dosin' these, okay...?

     Curin' all aches / Urinal cakes

New "Hat/Cattle" spinoff saved.

Sleep...? You risk a life enslaved. 

     All chaps and no saddle / All naps and, so: chattel!

Declaim'd (Will's famed speech) wrongly, nu...?

The mutes...? All sprung -- nor'll Roy Cohn sue.
     The summer of our discontent / The dumb are off: R.C.'s content.