"Lady Justice is blind, so adjust her I must."
Thus whines Justice Neil Gorsuch, who's not to be trusted.
"She must be confined: I must truss her or bust."
Thus opines Clarence Thomas, who ought to be busted.
"Although she's disgusting, I'm lusting, nonplussed,"
stammers Samu'l Alito. (Such sang froid! Such crust!)
"And as ashes to fascists be, pus be to rust."
Dost John Roberts misquote The Good Book? Yea, John dost.
"When I's citin', I side wit' consuvatives fu'st."
Justice Anthony Kennedy's less than robust.
Now Scalia is dead, of course. (Isn't he just!
(Sonia? Ruth? Steve? Elena? They'll not be discussed.)
Poet Poe pens nonsense verse. "Plus...phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." Its gamut runs from spam to worse. The po'sy posted...? Poe's diverse -- most, postcards from his universe, replies to grudges he must nurse. My summary...? Let me be terse: a mitzva, mostly. (Not a curse.)
Monday, February 12, 2018
"'Great Grandpa: you're old,' the man's great grandson cried..." Pool Noodles: A Nonsensical Nod to Lewis Carroll's "Old Father William"
"Great grandpa: you're old,"
the man's great grandson cried.
"What's your century taught you of life...?
Has it taught, for example,
what factors make pool noodles
so-o-o inexplicab'lly rife...?"
"You're so young, darling boy,"
his great grandfather sigh'd.
"If the truth be told, too young to know
how shrewd brood poodles serve
to preserve poodle puppies.
Whence think you brand new poodles flow...?"
"Great grandpa: you're moldy,"
the youngster grew snide,
"and your left ear's so awf'lly impair'd
that you hear my 'pool noodles'
as 'brood poodles' now.
Zut! Ton ouie, I am fearing, est merde!"
"You're so young, "
the old gentleman blithely replied.
"I'm just pulling your leg, Mister Silly.
But attend! Let me tell you
what nude strudels are.
They're those pastries
which lack fruity jelly."
"Great grandpa: you're bold,"
the youth yet again tried,
"but your brain's turn'd berserk with bad beer.
Naked strudels are not
what I'm talking about.
It's pool noodles
we're dealing with here."
"You're so young, little one,"
the old man amplified.
"I've been drawing blue doodles for years.
There are days I use crayons
and days I choose chalk.
Go tell that to your skeptical peers!"
Great grandpa: I'm sold,"
the young lad clarified.
"What I fear's both your ears
are no good.
Just forget about doodles!
I'm talking pool noodles.
Please open your ears as you should."
"You're so young, witless one,"
the old man turn'd aside,
"fusing 'doodles' with 'poodles' with 'strudels'...
not to mention 'caboodles.'
And what about 'feudals'...?"
(Just look where they've led us: pool noodles!)
the man's great grandson cried.
"What's your century taught you of life...?
Has it taught, for example,
what factors make pool noodles
so-o-o inexplicab'lly rife...?"
"You're so young, darling boy,"
his great grandfather sigh'd.
"If the truth be told, too young to know
how shrewd brood poodles serve
to preserve poodle puppies.
Whence think you brand new poodles flow...?"
"Great grandpa: you're moldy,"
the youngster grew snide,
"and your left ear's so awf'lly impair'd
that you hear my 'pool noodles'
as 'brood poodles' now.
Zut! Ton ouie, I am fearing, est merde!"
"You're so young, "
the old gentleman blithely replied.
"I'm just pulling your leg, Mister Silly.
But attend! Let me tell you
what nude strudels are.
They're those pastries
which lack fruity jelly."
"Great grandpa: you're bold,"
the youth yet again tried,
"but your brain's turn'd berserk with bad beer.
Naked strudels are not
what I'm talking about.
It's pool noodles
we're dealing with here."
"You're so young, little one,"
the old man amplified.
"I've been drawing blue doodles for years.
There are days I use crayons
and days I choose chalk.
Go tell that to your skeptical peers!"
Great grandpa: I'm sold,"
the young lad clarified.
"What I fear's both your ears
are no good.
Just forget about doodles!
I'm talking pool noodles.
Please open your ears as you should."
"You're so young, witless one,"
the old man turn'd aside,
"fusing 'doodles' with 'poodles' with 'strudels'...
not to mention 'caboodles.'
And what about 'feudals'...?"
(Just look where they've led us: pool noodles!)
"Of tongue or pen the saddest word..." The Saddest Words
Of tongue or pen the saddest word:
"It might have been"? Don't be absurd.
Some say the saddest, without doubt,
are, "Sorry, son; thy time's run out."
Still sadder some see, writ or spoke:
"Hey! Whassa matta? Jus' a joke."
Who hears these phrases owns he's failed:
"She's split, yer bird. Yer ship? She's sailed."
"Abandons hope, who enters here!"
The saddest? Nope! (Though mighty near.)
More sad by far these triste terms be:
"As thou art now, so once were we."
The Virgin to God's Son doth whine
in John, chap. II: "They have no wine."
Still, THE most sad of all, I fear?
The barkeep's call: "We're outta beer."
"It might have been"? Don't be absurd.
Some say the saddest, without doubt,
are, "Sorry, son; thy time's run out."
Still sadder some see, writ or spoke:
"Hey! Whassa matta? Jus' a joke."
Who hears these phrases owns he's failed:
"She's split, yer bird. Yer ship? She's sailed."
"Abandons hope, who enters here!"
The saddest? Nope! (Though mighty near.)
More sad by far these triste terms be:
"As thou art now, so once were we."
The Virgin to God's Son doth whine
in John, chap. II: "They have no wine."
Still, THE most sad of all, I fear?
The barkeep's call: "We're outta beer."
"Where now is young Stella..." The Stroh's of Yesteryear; or, Villon for the Vulgus: A Ballade on Dead Soldiers
Where now is young Stella who's christened Artois...?
And where dwells fair Glynnis nee Guinness the Dear...?
And where bide the Buds of May...? One now I'd draw.
O, where be the Stroh's of yester-year...?
And where dwells fair Glynnis nee Guinness the Dear...?
And where bide the Buds of May...? One now I'd draw.
O, where be the Stroh's of yester-year...?
(Francois Villon (1431-1463) composed a poem entitled "Ballade of the Dead Ladies" wherein occurs the refrain "Where are the snows of yester-year?" -- one of the most famous lines of translated poetry in the English-speaking world. The dead soldiers mentioned in the title are empty beer bottles and cans.)
Sunday, February 11, 2018
"All ador'd my angora..." Incomplete Abecedarial Paean to Plaid (A through L)
All ador'd my angora,
nor'd none dare ignore a
chemise made of Aertex I had.
Then I glimps'd Alan Ladd
on my iPad: Egad!
Was the shirt Al was girt with a plaid...?
Burlap broadcloth's unique,
and who'd not love batik,
nor'd a Battenberg lace be too bad.
But along bounded Brad:
weren't those jodhpurs he had?
And their braces and belts? All were plaid!
Cashmere, camel's hair, chintz,
cloth of gold (if mere hints).
Cloth which starts with C? Chiliads! Scads!
(Note: the PM of Chad
(K. P. Deubet's the lad)
rules in compets and boubous -- all plaids!)
Damask, double-knits, duck,
with some denim (what luck!)
thusly dress'd, I'd resemble De Sade.
Then I thought of me Dad,
deadbeat dryad gone mad.
(Dad died dancing in dirndls of plaid.)
Each electronic textile,
in plain-, stripe- or check-style,
which to moi ensemble I'd add
called for stringent proscription
of cotton (Egyptian).
Egad! No more plaid? 'Tis too sad.
For sale: five five-Farad
capacitors. Where had
I found them to wear? In an ad.
Who'd foment such a fad?
Flavor Flav, who's a cad?
Nope! That fellow, by far, prefers plaid.
Give me gingham, then Gore-Tex.
A gauze pinafore next.
Then gabardine gowns of your dad's.
He'd the gonads to don 'em --
with quatrefoils on 'em.
Still, I'd be most glad to get plaids.
Hand me hair shirts in herringbone,
hopsacks (to which I'm prone).
Harris Tweed widow's weeds? Rad!
(Did I spy, on your helipad,
once ev'ry hebdomad,
CONELRAD op'rants in plaid?)
I've loved fine Irish linen
and cotton that's Indi'n.
My feelings for these? Ironclad!
Till a book -- 'twas an Iliad
bought in Islamabad --
introduced Islamic plaid.
Jeremiads (my own)
flow in triads: I moan,
"Jerseys, jutes, Jacquard suits? Those I've had."
Now jihadists enlist
in Jamdani. I'm pissed:
they join up, jup'd and jodhpur'd, in plaid.
Kanye's kid brother styled --
to look kooky and wild --
all my kaftans and kurtas. Good lad!
But, like most city slickers,
he bypassed my knickers,
my kilts and my kicks. None are plaid!
Linsey-woolsey? A trace.
Leather briefs I embrace.
I've more linens than Vlad Lenin had,
who, in lush lingerie
done in lambs-wool lame,
long held sway. (Why's his loincloth not plaid?)
nor'd none dare ignore a
chemise made of Aertex I had.
Then I glimps'd Alan Ladd
on my iPad: Egad!
Was the shirt Al was girt with a plaid...?
Burlap broadcloth's unique,
and who'd not love batik,
nor'd a Battenberg lace be too bad.
But along bounded Brad:
weren't those jodhpurs he had?
And their braces and belts? All were plaid!
Cashmere, camel's hair, chintz,
cloth of gold (if mere hints).
Cloth which starts with C? Chiliads! Scads!
(Note: the PM of Chad
(K. P. Deubet's the lad)
rules in compets and boubous -- all plaids!)
Damask, double-knits, duck,
with some denim (what luck!)
thusly dress'd, I'd resemble De Sade.
Then I thought of me Dad,
deadbeat dryad gone mad.
(Dad died dancing in dirndls of plaid.)
Each electronic textile,
in plain-, stripe- or check-style,
which to moi ensemble I'd add
called for stringent proscription
of cotton (Egyptian).
Egad! No more plaid? 'Tis too sad.
For sale: five five-Farad
capacitors. Where had
I found them to wear? In an ad.
Who'd foment such a fad?
Flavor Flav, who's a cad?
Nope! That fellow, by far, prefers plaid.
Give me gingham, then Gore-Tex.
A gauze pinafore next.
Then gabardine gowns of your dad's.
He'd the gonads to don 'em --
with quatrefoils on 'em.
Still, I'd be most glad to get plaids.
Hand me hair shirts in herringbone,
hopsacks (to which I'm prone).
Harris Tweed widow's weeds? Rad!
(Did I spy, on your helipad,
once ev'ry hebdomad,
CONELRAD op'rants in plaid?)
I've loved fine Irish linen
and cotton that's Indi'n.
My feelings for these? Ironclad!
Till a book -- 'twas an Iliad
bought in Islamabad --
introduced Islamic plaid.
Jeremiads (my own)
flow in triads: I moan,
"Jerseys, jutes, Jacquard suits? Those I've had."
Now jihadists enlist
in Jamdani. I'm pissed:
they join up, jup'd and jodhpur'd, in plaid.
Kanye's kid brother styled --
to look kooky and wild --
all my kaftans and kurtas. Good lad!
But, like most city slickers,
he bypassed my knickers,
my kilts and my kicks. None are plaid!
Linsey-woolsey? A trace.
Leather briefs I embrace.
I've more linens than Vlad Lenin had,
who, in lush lingerie
done in lambs-wool lame,
long held sway. (Why's his loincloth not plaid?)
"Why's there something, then, rather than nothing...?" Suite (of) Nothings: An ABC About Aught
Why's there something, then, rather than nothing?
Are there answers heard, sounded by priests,
by philosophers or by the science guys?
Is it time timely inquiry ceased?
Hold your horse! Take a gander at Google!
Type in "N...O...T...H...I...N...G"!
Then add, one at a time, ev'ry alphabet letter,
It's nothing but nothings you'll see.
There's "nothing At (all)." There's "nothing But (net)."
There's "nothing Compares (2 U)" -- lest you forget.
"Nothing Doing," (warns Duke, "till you hear it from me").
There's Metallica's "nothing Else (matters)" -- in E.
"Nothing Fancy" -- that's free. "Nothing Gold (stays)" -- that's Frost.
"Nothing's Holding (me back)" -- that's a ringtone, as well.
"It's (a show about) nothing," insists George Costanza.
There's "Nothing (Janne Teller's tome)": how'd that book sell?
There's "nothing Kumpares" -- once again, that's Sinead.
There's "nothing Lasts (longer than...)" -- add your own pun.
Whazzup? "Nothing Much." "Nothing Matters (as such)."
And there's "nothing New (under the sun)."
There's "(she's got) nothing On (but the radio)."
There's the film "Nothing Personal," too.
Ebert notes, "(There is) nothing Quite (like it)." Thumbs up!
"Nothing runs (like a Deere)," either...nu?
"Nothing Suits (like a suit)" sings young Neil Patrick Harris.
"(We've) nothing To (fear)," Franklin feigns.
And can mere verse reveal whether "nothing's Unreal"?
"Nothing Ventured"? Then, what be the gains?
There's "(comes easily) nothing Worth (having)."
There's "(the) nothing (for) Xmas (you're getting)."
There's "(the) nothing You (tell but the truth)" in a courtroom.
There's "Nothing: Zac (Brown's band)," I'm betting.
Nothings all. But exist they instead of the somethings?
And who shall put that to a test?
And yet, why is there something, not nothing?
Is that something we all should have guessed?
Are there answers heard, sounded by priests,
by philosophers or by the science guys?
Is it time timely inquiry ceased?
Hold your horse! Take a gander at Google!
Type in "N...O...T...H...I...N...G"!
Then add, one at a time, ev'ry alphabet letter,
It's nothing but nothings you'll see.
There's "nothing At (all)." There's "nothing But (net)."
There's "nothing Compares (2 U)" -- lest you forget.
"Nothing Doing," (warns Duke, "till you hear it from me").
There's Metallica's "nothing Else (matters)" -- in E.
"Nothing Fancy" -- that's free. "Nothing Gold (stays)" -- that's Frost.
"Nothing's Holding (me back)" -- that's a ringtone, as well.
"It's (a show about) nothing," insists George Costanza.
There's "Nothing (Janne Teller's tome)": how'd that book sell?
There's "nothing Kumpares" -- once again, that's Sinead.
There's "nothing Lasts (longer than...)" -- add your own pun.
Whazzup? "Nothing Much." "Nothing Matters (as such)."
And there's "nothing New (under the sun)."
There's "(she's got) nothing On (but the radio)."
There's the film "Nothing Personal," too.
Ebert notes, "(There is) nothing Quite (like it)." Thumbs up!
"Nothing runs (like a Deere)," either...nu?
"Nothing Suits (like a suit)" sings young Neil Patrick Harris.
"(We've) nothing To (fear)," Franklin feigns.
And can mere verse reveal whether "nothing's Unreal"?
"Nothing Ventured"? Then, what be the gains?
There's "(comes easily) nothing Worth (having)."
There's "(the) nothing (for) Xmas (you're getting)."
There's "(the) nothing You (tell but the truth)" in a courtroom.
There's "Nothing: Zac (Brown's band)," I'm betting.
Nothings all. But exist they instead of the somethings?
And who shall put that to a test?
And yet, why is there something, not nothing?
Is that something we all should have guessed?
"Though an 'even''s seen in 'seven'..." What Are the Odds? An Anomoly of Numbers
Though an 'even''s seen in 'seven,' oddly, 7 isn't even.
That an 'even''s in 'eleven's odd: 11, too, ain't even.
An "An 'even''s seen in 'seven' although 7 isn't even"
seems, routinely, a fifteener. (Even so, 15 ain't even.)
An "An 'even''s in 'eleven' though 11 isn't even"
seems a byzantine fifteener. Still, 15 remains uneven.
(Note: these lines through which we plod
though, 'even's notwithstanding, odd,
we see wind down -- for which, thank God! --
and roundly boo'd as oddly flawed.)
That an 'even''s in 'eleven's odd: 11, too, ain't even.
An "An 'even''s seen in 'seven' although 7 isn't even"
seems, routinely, a fifteener. (Even so, 15 ain't even.)
An "An 'even''s in 'eleven' though 11 isn't even"
seems a byzantine fifteener. Still, 15 remains uneven.
(Note: these lines through which we plod
though, 'even's notwithstanding, odd,
we see wind down -- for which, thank God! --
and roundly boo'd as oddly flawed.)
Saturday, February 10, 2018
"I attack all things new. I'm but barely alive..." Autoantipathetic ABC; or, O Loathsome Me (from AmalgaMates)
I attack all things new. I'm but barely alive.
No, I haven't a clue. I'm deficient in drive.
All my energy's spent and my faith is a sham.
Did I gamble the rent...? Yes. (I hate who I am.)
I'm deep into the booze. When I'm jealous, I pout.
I garrotted my muse once my luck had run out.
I am manic yet dim. I persistently bore.
I'm wa-a-ay out on a limb. My libido is poor.
I'm too quick to accuse. In your wounds I'll rub salt.
I consistently lose. Want the truth...? It's my fault.
I am up to no good. I am vain to the bone.
I will not (though I should). I am xenophobe-prone.
Though I yearn to be hip I wind up acting twee:
I'm a zero, a zip. But, what d'you think of me...?
No, I haven't a clue. I'm deficient in drive.
All my energy's spent and my faith is a sham.
Did I gamble the rent...? Yes. (I hate who I am.)
I'm deep into the booze. When I'm jealous, I pout.
I garrotted my muse once my luck had run out.
I am manic yet dim. I persistently bore.
I'm wa-a-ay out on a limb. My libido is poor.
I'm too quick to accuse. In your wounds I'll rub salt.
I consistently lose. Want the truth...? It's my fault.
I am up to no good. I am vain to the bone.
I will not (though I should). I am xenophobe-prone.
Though I yearn to be hip I wind up acting twee:
I'm a zero, a zip. But, what d'you think of me...?
Friday, February 9, 2018
"Curly, Moe, Larry, Shemp..." How They Died; or, Necrologue: Shuffling Off This Mortal Coil
Curly, Moe, Larry, Shemp: all devolv'd to room temp.
"First Cartoonist" Thom Nast wound up breathing his last.
Colin's Granddaddy Firth has departed this earth.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Codicologist Morse rides -- behold! -- a pale horse.
Culture icon Joan Quarm, late last year, bought the farm.
Mogul Friedrich ("Fritz") Krupp watch'd his number come up.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Mr. John Albert Macy's now pushing up daisies.
One Solomon Phipps fin'lly cash'd in his chips.
Justice Morrison Waite simply slipp'd off the plate.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
All (or most) of the Bysshes now sleep with the fishes.
St. Christopher Wade...? Made to drink the Kool Aid.
Herr Hermanus van't Hoff softly exited off.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Rudi (jazz critic) Blesh went the way of all flesh.
Ms. Elizabeth Baker en fin met her Maker.
Li'l Abner's Al Capp took a final dirt nap.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Couple Carl and Blanch Jost gravely gave up the ghost.
Poet Julia Ward Howe waved, then took her last bow.
Joseph Smith and his wives...? All of them lost their lives.
when will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Right-winger John Birch veer'd...then fell off his perch.
Charles Caldwell McCabe...? In the bosom of Abe.
Messrs E. and K. Wynn (pop 'n' son) packed it in.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Rufus, Tom and John Choates all donn'd pine overcoats.
Kicked the bucket did Boggs: Ephraim popp'd his clogs.
Even "Prosp" Merimee, in the end, pass'd away.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
"First Cartoonist" Thom Nast wound up breathing his last.
Colin's Granddaddy Firth has departed this earth.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Codicologist Morse rides -- behold! -- a pale horse.
Culture icon Joan Quarm, late last year, bought the farm.
Mogul Friedrich ("Fritz") Krupp watch'd his number come up.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Mr. John Albert Macy's now pushing up daisies.
One Solomon Phipps fin'lly cash'd in his chips.
Justice Morrison Waite simply slipp'd off the plate.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
All (or most) of the Bysshes now sleep with the fishes.
St. Christopher Wade...? Made to drink the Kool Aid.
Herr Hermanus van't Hoff softly exited off.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Rudi (jazz critic) Blesh went the way of all flesh.
Ms. Elizabeth Baker en fin met her Maker.
Li'l Abner's Al Capp took a final dirt nap.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Couple Carl and Blanch Jost gravely gave up the ghost.
Poet Julia Ward Howe waved, then took her last bow.
Joseph Smith and his wives...? All of them lost their lives.
when will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Right-winger John Birch veer'd...then fell off his perch.
Charles Caldwell McCabe...? In the bosom of Abe.
Messrs E. and K. Wynn (pop 'n' son) packed it in.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
Rufus, Tom and John Choates all donn'd pine overcoats.
Kicked the bucket did Boggs: Ephraim popp'd his clogs.
Even "Prosp" Merimee, in the end, pass'd away.
When will you and/or me shuffle off this m.c....?
"Once, the world was just fire or earth, water or air..." Science Schmyence! E Equals M C Squared: A Disquisition on an Equation
Once, the world was just fire or earth,
water or air.
That's when God was head honcho.
Dissenters? Grilled rare!
Then a diff'rent reality
Albert E. bared:
it seems e equaled m
times the speed of light squared.
Cast your mind back to Al,
him of mad-as-March hair.
To eschew Albert's view of the u...?
Who dared dare...?
Yet some did disagree.
I, for one, bellowed, "Merde!
Are you shittin' me...?
Energy's m times c squared...?"
"What else? Matter's dark...?
Holes black? Quarks everywhere...?
Leapin' leptons...? Bad bosons...?
Far fruitier fare...?
My Old Testament cosmos
can not be repaired --
not when energy's mass
times the speed of light squared.
"Are there cosmoi in parallel...?
Damned if I care!
Does my watch slow the faster I go...?
C'est la guerre!
I'd prefer Al'd not shared.
I'd have rather been spared
each new round which compounds
E be (zounds!) mc²."
water or air.
That's when God was head honcho.
Dissenters? Grilled rare!
Then a diff'rent reality
Albert E. bared:
it seems e equaled m
times the speed of light squared.
Cast your mind back to Al,
him of mad-as-March hair.
To eschew Albert's view of the u...?
Who dared dare...?
Yet some did disagree.
I, for one, bellowed, "Merde!
Are you shittin' me...?
Energy's m times c squared...?"
"What else? Matter's dark...?
Holes black? Quarks everywhere...?
Leapin' leptons...? Bad bosons...?
Far fruitier fare...?
My Old Testament cosmos
can not be repaired --
not when energy's mass
times the speed of light squared.
"Are there cosmoi in parallel...?
Damned if I care!
Does my watch slow the faster I go...?
C'est la guerre!
I'd prefer Al'd not shared.
I'd have rather been spared
each new round which compounds
E be (zounds!) mc²."
"Newt...neuter...nudist..." Posi-, Compara-, Superla-: A Digression on Degrees (Illustration)
 |
| Illustration in Pentel on photocopy paper by N. Smithe-Magee |
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