Predictions

You'd enter, midair, towards the loo...? You'll exit with "food" in your hair. 

You'd enter prepared for a coup...? You'll exit denuded (laid bare).

You'd enter ensnared in grey goo...? You'll exit bedew'd from La Mer.

You'd enter as Herr Passepartout*...? You'll exit in Lou's underwear. 

You'd enter in prayer ("O, Mon Dieu...")...? You'll exit unglued from your chair.

You'd enter with flair and on cue...? You'll exit with noodles to spare.

You'd enter in hair braids of blue...? You'll exit, excluded from...where...?

You'd enter to scare you-know-who...? You'll exit pursued by a bear. 

* I.e., Louis Passepartout. Jean Passepartout is Fogg's valet

in the Verne novel. Louis is Jean's uncle's eldest son.

Inquiry

 Medieval scholastics, some Protestants hold, 
ponder'd ad finitum, or so I’ve been told, 
as to how many angels, their choirs obscure, 
can dance on a pinhead. (En fin, they weren’t sure.) 
 
What puzzles me, though, and to ask's only fair, 
remains: how many pins (cotter, clothes-, push- or hair-) 
can dance – Cakewalk, Moonwalk, Fandango or Fly --
on the head of an angel...? (No djinns need reply.) 

Clothespinoffs

The Alpin  
The Bowlingpin 
The Cotterpin 
The Diaperpin 
The Elopin'  
The Flappin' 
The Gallopin'  
The Hairpin 
The Industrialpin 
The Jumpin’  
The Krispin 
The Lupin 
The Maupin  
The Ninepin 
The Orpin 
The Pushpin  
The Qutipin 
The Rollingpin  
The Safetypin 
The Turpin  
The Upholsterypin 
The Volpin  
The Wirelockpin 
The X  
The Yelpin’  
The Zupin 

What...?

Apples ape oranges; boys become girls.
Climate...? Unchangeable! (Swine before pearls...?)

Dead people vote; an Ex-POTUS "makes par."

Fetuses...? People, friend: that's what they are.

'Gay' in the Sunshine State never gets spoke.

Handguns are handy where voters aren't woke.

Icebergs...? Amelt. Greenland...? Au reservoir.

Jews remain kvelt.* See, they know what they are.

     * Past participle of 'kvele,' Norwegian Bokmål for 

       'strangled, suffocated, stifled, suppressed or smothered.'

Klansmen pass maskless; past lies pass for truth.

MTG passes as Queen of Uncouth.

"Neighbors shoots neighbors"...? No longer bizarre.

Orange-puss'd POTUS boasts tan from a jar.

Proud Boys, judged traitors, get dubb'd "patriotic."

Quietly, Congress adopts laws despotic.

Roe's been aborted by courts shifted far

to the right. Supreme...? White!! Oh, they know what they are.

Toadies call'd Tucker mislead and beguile.

UFO foil hats sit stuck in denial.

Values grow obsolete. How high's the bar...?

'Woke''s but a shibboleth. That's what we are.

X: When's a Christian cross swastika-like,

prompting lingo like 'yidiot,' 'shylock' 'n' 'kike'...?

We're zealots. We're zombies. We've misplaced our star.

It's hard to deny that this is what we are. 

Elan Vital

Outpaced by a wombat...? Pursued by a bear...?
Chased by a meerkat (we all have been there)...?

Tail'd by a muskrat 'til grimace glows red...?

Trail'd by a fruit bat...? Just proves I'm not dead!

Attack'd by a crocodile ...? Stalk'd by a gnu...?   

Track'd by a spermophile (squirrel to you)...?

Fought by a queen bee -- indeed, her whole hive...? 

Sought by a tsetse...? Just proves I'm alive! 

Janes, Jeans, Joans, Junes...? Sure. Jines and Jynes...? No Sir!

Janes...? I know Austen and Mansfield and Goodall 

and Darwell and Lynch and Avril. 
I know Fonda and Seymour and Russell and Wyatt. 

I -- plainly -- know more than my fill.

(Ought I mention Calamaty Jane...

...who, while arm'd, displays legerdemain...?) 
I know oodles of Janes, which is fine...

...yet I don’t recall one single Jine.

Jeans...? I know Harlow and Arthur and Redpath 

and Auel and Shrimpton and Kerr. 
I know Hagen and Seberg and Kennedy Smith. 

E. Jean Carroll...? I’ll not forget her. 

(Ought I specify Spark's Miss Jean Brodie...

...who turn'd fascist but never turn'd toady...?)
I know lots of Jeans – largely online...

...yet I don’t recall one single Jyne. 

 
Joans...? I know Crawford and Collins and Jett; 

I know Sutherland, Baez and d’Arc. 

I know Plowright and Hickson and Caulfield and Rivers... 

...and Didion (that damsel's dark). 

(Ought I recognize Li'l Jumping Joan...

...who Mère l'Oye adds is "always alone"...?)
I know tons of Joans, girlfriends of mine...

...yet I don’t recall one single Jine.

Junes...? I know Carter Cash, Christy and Taylor 

and Haver and Havoc and Knight.

And that painting of Leighton’s they call “Flaming June.” 

Also Lockhart and Foray, alright...?

(Ought I add as a footnote June Cleaver...

...who play'd Ward's wife in "Leave It To Beaver"...?)

Dames dubb'd June...? Here I'd best draw the line...

...Still, I don't recall Jine. Nope, nor Jyne. *

* Not considered above are Dick and Sally's sister Jane,

actress Jan Clayton, former White House press secretary

Jen White, south Korean girl group Oh My Girl member JinE,

actress Gene Tierney, Honey Boo Boo's Mama June, Tekken's

Jin Kazama and Star Wars' Jyn Erso.

Color Me Refractory! by Roy G. Biv

     To those insisting they know words designating colors 

but lacking any rhymes, guest poetaster Biv says, "Nonsense!"

Larry has a little lamb. Indeed, he has a chilver.

As send up of the Mask'd Man's horse, he calls his chilver "Silver."

Yeasts 'n' rusts 'n' chanterelles: each fungus sports a sporange.

Some sporanges glow bowling green; rust sporanges look orange. 

Rhyming words arrive in herds when mispronounced is 'beige.'

Your 'sage' won't do, nor 'gauge' won't, too. (But note the color 'greige.'*)

     * A blend of grey and beige.

There's wedgies and there's towel snaps, the noogie and the nurple.

Each snap leaves joke butt's buttocks blue; each nurple leaves tits purple.

Among the young of Alcidae...? The puffling and the auklet.

The puffling's cock-a-doodle blue. The auklet's hue...? Milk choc'late.

A Queen of Crime is Ngaio Marsh, whose fav'rite bloom's the violet.

Don't wonder, then, at shades of walls in rooms for rent that Ngaio let.