The Week of the Walrus & (GHI)

     G 

The walrus totes a golden goose 
which harbors hangers-on -- 
kid sisters (three), a parson (he 
construes the goose a swan), 
one sexton and two laborers -- 
their show so-o-o-o woebegone! 

     H 

The walrus pilfers half a loaf 

of pumpernickel bread. 

His cousin who's a harbor seal 

steals loaves of rye instead. 

Their ancestor's both breadless 

and ten million summers dead. 

     I 

The walrus (call him Ishmael), 

a former Isra'lite, 

five oceans sails in search of whales, 

most gray, some blue, one white. 

(Cetacea by walruses dispatch'd...? 

That can't be right.)

 

The Week of the Walrus & (DEF)

     D 

The walrus, in his deux cheveaux,  
encounters, in a bar, 
a minister, a rabbi 
(are you following so far...?) 
and a priest. They ask the barkeep... 
(Made I mention of the car...?) 

     E 

The walrus and the envelope 

both chose the day to seize. 

Hyena-eyed, the walrus cried, 

"To hell with Qs 'n' Ps!" 

The envelope, tho,' caution'd "Nope! 

Don't push me, if you please." 

     F 

The walrus fancies fingerfood -- 

shrimp canapés, hors d'oeuvres, 

brie quiche, pu pu, stuff'd mushrooms, too 

(such vittles Brit teas serve) --

while steering clear of roach-en-beer,  

which meal needs seals with nerve.

The Week of the Walrus & (ABC)

     A 

The walrus and the ampersand's 

departure caus'd a fuss. 

"Rock bottom in old ABCs*

is not the spot for us," 
the walrus warn'd. "Our flight's been 

cancelled...? Basta! Board the bus!" 

*Early ABCs often follow'd Z with &.

     B 

The walrus and the bathysphere, 

upon the latter's whim, 

parade along the boardwalk. 

Words absurd are heard from him: 

"Bide near, my dear! Don't veer, d'you hear; 

know well* you: I can't swim." 

*Does the phrase suggest this  

conversation occurs during the 

Xmas season...?

     C 

The walrus and the conflagration 

strode; the walrus spoke: 

"With such a blaze, one seal might raze 

whole shtetls -- that's no joke. 

How grand to rid our land of Yid --

yea, ALL unwelcome folk!" 

Name That Loon! (Dynel J. Trompe)

Say Dickens to this day draws breath.

Say Charley never died.

Chuck doubtless still his tales could tell, 

though needing to decide 

what names to name their nemeses --

the villains of each piece. 

A Scrooge, a Heep, a Sikes: his need 

for telling tags ne'er'd cease. 

Say Dickens spawns a scoundrel 

with rococo Day-Glo hair,  

a truth-denying psychopath 

with villainies to spare, 

whose thatch resembles pasturelands 

some jeune fille might marcel:

a faux fox fur of polymer.

He'd dub that dude "Dynel." 

In French, to trompe (with silent e)...? 

To cheat, to fool, to trick. 

A tool who "trompe"'s a mythomaniac, 

a fraud, a dick.

Unfaithful to his missus (nu...?), 

this faux-republican's 

an archetypal Dickens cad:

Dynal J. Trompe's that man. 

More Meigs Mimicry: Flyover Edition

Meet Mildred Plew Meigs's Don Dirk of Dowdee disguised as each of a pair of South Dakota artists.

    Howl "Hi-

yo(lk)!" to the cowpoke 

I've bill'd Black Hills Bill. 
     Jake's pop's  

shtick's makin' pics 

with a Mother Goose quill. 

     Such fine 

art's hard to start  

if one knows not the drill.

     Stroke o'

luck: this bloke DOES!  

Black Hills Bill. 

     Now say 

"Howgh!" to the cowgirl 

Sioux've dubb'd Turning Bull. 

     Ev'ry 

sketch the more fetching -- 

when push comes to pull. 

     Turning's 

palette...? 'Tis empty. 

Portfolio...? Full. 

     I'm in 

awe of the squaw 

Turning Bull. 

     Turning 

Bull, Black Hills Bill: 

as duet, the two share 

    my es-

teem. As a team, 

their collab'rative fare 

     lets this

pair live the dream. 

'Tis a fam'ly affair. 

     Turning 

Bull, Black Hills Bill: 

Buonaser'! 

A Partial List... (cont'd)

      #22 

"Don! Sing with Us Tars!" 

In this tale told in rhyming couplets, 

an octet of jolly sailors, several of 

whom are named Jack, plead with 

POTUS to join them in a chorus of 

"99 Bottles of Coke on the Wall." 

     The verses end on a sad note 

with the president appearing to 

forget most of the words. 

A Partial List of Children's Literature Titles Overlooked by Newbery Medal Award Committee Judges

This tale takes place during the 

caliphate of Harun al-Rashid and 

relates the adventures of a young 

apprentice genie, svelte and 

statuesque, who one day, while 

attempting to assume the shape 

of a roc, instead inexplicably takes 

the form, and begins murmuring 

the sounds, of a mourning dove.

     #17 

 
"D'Litt: Tall, Lean Djinn That Coo'd"

Next! (The Altar Stones)

     The Altar Stones 

Enfrock'd in aqua doctors' robes, 
the Alts ply lyres astride pied globes, 
then prance past oscillating strobes 
to lays of Leopold's. (Or Loeb's.) 
Each gig ends badly -- as did Job's -- 
once Fatha' Fats, first flute, disrobes. 
The EPA's conducting probes: 
affront, do Alts, fans' frontal lobes. 

    

This incomplete illustration of the   
band shows several pied globes, 
one with its saddle, astride which 
band members make their entrance 
playing their vintage Martin lyres. 
It also captures the moment in the 
band's  performance when Jimmie 
(Fatha' Fats") Nicklewicz, flutist and 
lead singer, begins his signature 
striptease. 

Next! or, Shadowing the Stones: an Alphabet (Prologue)

      Prologue 

Which bands, not now renown'd nor known, 
aspire to R&Rdom's throne...? 
Who's next...? Which Keith 'n' Jagger clones 

shall supersede the Rolling Stones...? 

     (to be continued)

An Early Holiday Greeting

Blue Djinns; or, Blue, Blue, Blue Is the Hue of Maya Truelove's Do & Other Nonsense

     Drei Dry Djinn

     Ein 

One kin's a djinn demonic, 

a Finn whose sins be chronic. 

This thane of earls 

his mane of curls 

in vain unfurls. Sardonic...? 

     Zwei 

Akin's a djinn (clan...? Yanik)

whose binge is gin and tonic. 

This bane of girls 

his rain of pearls 

insanely hurls. Moronic...? 

     Drei 

"En fin"...? A djinn Teutonic -- 

twinn-chinn'd: one's thin, one's conic. 

Mint skeins he purls. 

In pain he twirls, 

this swain of churls. Bubonic...?