The Case for Noiseless Fireworks: ...3...2...1...

 . . .exPLOsion!

Matthew 11:7-10 Rescann'd

What did you go to his rally to see...?
A reed of bamboo overwhelm'd by each breeze...?
A p-grabber down with the kissing disease...?

Profiteroles stuff'd with havartis or bries...?

But what did you go to his rally to see...?

A minister garb'd in the liv'ry of kings...?

A supremacist molting conservative wings...?

An unregister'd nurse nursing Singapore Slings...?

But what did you go to his rally to see...?

A narcissist golf cheat, one wa-a-ay overweight...?

A scoundrel who seems to hate all stuff you hate...?

His answers to unanswer'd prayers...? Wa-a-a-ay too late.

Still More Brewers: two more of an eventual twenty three portraits...

 

Xenophon 
with wine
in krater

Lew Bryson

with whiskey

in shot glass

Papal Pap; or. Apocryphal Papas

     Here are several pretend clerihews identifying 

     a selection of antipopes, conclavists, sedevacantists, 

     sedeprivationists, mysticalists, episcopi vagantes, 

     quasi-cardinal-nephews, traditionalist Catholics, 

     independent Catholics, Catholic charismatics and 

     other RC pretenders.

     I 

David Allen Bawden

plodded paths less-trodden.

Calling himself Pope Michael the 

First,

this real estate agent, e-

lected the pope on Ju-

ly the 16th, 19-

90, by laymen as-

sembl'd in David's folks' 

fam'ly's small thrift store in 

Belvue, a small burg in 

Kansas, post which he con-

tinued to live with his 

parents until, in the

year '22, David's  

conclavist bubble got

burst.

     II 

Clemente Dominguez y Gomez,

whose perception was blatantly low-res,

is the seventeenth pope with the Gregory 

name.

Gomez claim'd to've received appa-

ritions from Jesus as 

well as the Virgin -- i-

ronical, that, since the 

former insurance man 

lost both his eyeballs, this

due to a car crash, which 

didn't, however... 

     (more to come: a work in progress) 

One Fine Day in the Kalihari

A verse prequel to "The Gods Must Be Crazy"

featuring Namibian farmer N!xau ╪Toma in his

younger days prior to his encounter with that

Coca-Cola bottle.

Once, N!xau found a piece of string.

“Attach,” his father said, “that thing 
to both ends of this willowwood 
and form a bow. You know you should, 
for with that bow you'll snare a hare, 
and all shall dine on tasty fare.” 
 
“Forget the bow,” his mother said. 
“Give me that piece of string instead 
and I shall thread it through this hide 
to make a loin cloth just so wide 
to camouflage your private parts... 
...and galvanize all San gal's hearts.” 
 
Spoke N!xau's brother then: “Forget 
those gals! Give me that string! I’ll bet, 
when fasten’d to this blackthorn pole 
and taken to the fishing hole, 
that string will net us fish galore -- 
perhaps a dozen -- maybe more.”

Then N!xau thought about that thread

and ev'rything his fam'ly'd said.

"The breech cloth would be dope, as would

the pole or bow: that's understood.

But I prefer to form a ring

to forecast what the future'll bring."

( more to come; a work in progress)  

More Brewers: six more of an eventual twenty three portraits (click on each to view detail)

 

Elizabeth I 

with small beer 

in stoneware tankard

Belgian citizen

with lambic in 

typical glass

Hemingway 

with can of 

Ballantine

Greg Kitsock 

with brew in 

Mid-Atlantic

Beer News mug

Martin Morse

Wooster with

flight in tasting

paddle

Pirate 

with brew in 

wooden tankard

Brewers: eight of an eventual twenty three portraits (click on each image to view detail)

 

Jonathan Chapman

with apple cider 

in jam jar

    

    

   Diego Libkind

   with lager in 

   Erlenmeyer flask

   Elynour Rummyng

   with noppy ale

   in wooden tankard

   Paulaner monk 

   with strong beer 

   in wooden tankard

   Chesapeake denizen

   with Budweiser in 

   10-ounce can

   J. C. Jacobsen

   with lager yeast

   in top hat

   Michael Jackson

   with unidentified pint

   in 16-ounce glass

   Unhappy drinker

   with turd beer

   in red plastic cup

A (Very) Brief History of Rhyme

     "Stick with quantitative verse

      For fear of finding something worse."  

                         -- Higgins / Belloc

Once (or twice) upon a time,

some lines of verse began to rhyme.

     It happen'd here, or was it there...?

     I've never quite been certain where.
     Where'er, it were a happ'ning rare.

Before then, lines of all our songs

were sung in feet -- some shorts, some longs.

     Before, each line in meters beat --

     a rumbling thunder, tumbling feet

     behind the hills, across the street.

Before then, assonance was king.

Alliteration did its thing.

      This rush of consonants 'n' vow'ls

      enliven'd elegies 'n' growls,

      quintillas, limericks 'n' howls.

Then sev'ral times (or just the once)

occur'd an unexpected bunce:

     Some someone (none recall a name)

     began to play a rhyming game.

     An' since then shit all sounds the same.

Toon Time

 

     The Republican 

National Committee

in partnership with

Terrortoons Productions 

presents 

 

     Donkle & Ronkle
the Doubletalking

MAGApies 

 

     Donkle: 

"Here I come to save the day!"

     

     Ronkle:

"Queer...? I'm standin' in yer way!"

Astro-nauty (But Nice...?)

The gifts which NASA's giftshop vends...? 

One calls 'em astro-bought.
When war ensues o'er who's to get 'em...? 

Those are astro-fought. 
Were one to search out further gifts, 

one'd call those astro-sought.
Whene'er an airborne gift one catches, 

call it astro-caught.
The range of gifts one lectures on...? 

One call those astro-taught.
The tightest gifts one brings to class...? 

The same, spelt astro-taut.
If made to make the gift oneself, 

one calls it astro-wrought.
And when a gift just won't add up,

one calls it astro-naught.

My Vow

My vow...? No grave for me 'til he's 

in maximum security.

I'll ne'er give up the ghost before 

he's locked behind an iron door.

For me, no crypt, no pinewood box 

'til he's equip'd with nineteen locks.

I'll never walk Grim Reaper's route 

'til Don has donn'd his orange suit.

I will not die before the guy 

sits tuck'd away in prison,

nor pass away before this crazy's 

equitably jail'd.
I'll not expire before the liar's 

number's fin'lly risen --
'til all his legal eagles rest 

and all his pleas have fail'd.

 

I won't succumb before the bum's 

seen pacing in a cell --

his offspring having fail'd to spring him, 

be they, oh, so clever.

I shan't depart before this fart 

begins hard time in Hell. 

And if indictments soon aren't filed, 

I might just live forever.