Naval Commissions I WOULD Accept & Those I Would Not

Though long belong'd to longboats, true,

I'm wrong to throng your Wong boat, nu...?

If Hong Kong junk

I'd sail, I'm sunk,

for I hail not from Asia.

I live to steer your riverboat

but shiver near your sieve.* Your boat's

a sieve, you see.

(Plus -- pity me! --

I suffer from aphasia.)

* Uly Poe is no Jumblie.

I'd "Aye!" you in your bayou boat, 

deny you in your “Why you...?” boat: 

Cry I: “Boo-hoo!

If 'Why not you..?' 

then 'Why not me...?' as well." 

  I’d stomp snakes in your swamp boat 

but I'd swamp your psychopomp boat: 

When Death says, "Go!"

just let me know: 

I’ll hit my mark in hell. 

I'd motor in your motor boat

but vote "No!" to your boater boat:

Your straw-hat raft

is no fit craft;

it even lacks a rudder.

I'd sailor in your sail boat

but I'd fail in your white whale boat:

Just Ish comes back

once fish attack.

(Plus, Ahab makes me shudder.)

I’d troll in your patrol boat 

but I'd mock your rock-’n’ roll boat -- 

tho' I’m all ears  

for Tears for Fears, 

that pop band out of Bath. 

  I’d bring to heel your keel boat 

but I'd wheel not your schlemiel boat. 

(I’d navigate  

your billingsgate 

but not your primrose path.) 

I’d float on your banana boat 

but not your vox humana boat, 

preferring stops  

where timbre drops 

to sounds just whales can hear. 

  I’d fare well on your ferry boat 

but crash your cash-’n’-carry boat: 

My credit’s fine, 

but, bottom line, 

I’m low on dough, I fear. 

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.