Any Donald But You-know-who (More Drumpf Doggerel)

  
I'll support an assortment of Dons – just not Drumpf. 
Defunct actor Ameche? Why not!
Donald Byrd, trumpet preacher? Donn, "comber de beach"? Sure!
I'll dig any Donald you’ve got!
     * Restauranteur Donn Beach, known as 'Don the Beachcomber.'

Don Cheadle the humanitarian? Great!
Ditto Crisp and DeLillo and Duck! 
I'm for Drysdale (yeah, really!), for Fagen the Steely
and Draper -- I don't give a fuck!

I’m for Ho the Hawaiian and Henley the Eagle.
(Mysogynist Imus? I'm torn!)
But Don Knotts and Don King and Don Mattingly? Regal!
I'm glad to blow any Don's horn. 

I refuse to support Father Donald McGuire*
around whom no one's children are safe.
I say "No!" to all priests caught despoiling the choir --
"Yes!" to Dondi the comic strip waif.
     * Now-jailed pederast Jesuit supported by Mother Theresa. 

Don Pardo, Don Pleasance! O'Connor, McLean!
Even Rickles and Rumsfeld I'll buy.
As I say, I'll support any Donald but Drumpf.
(Nor, indeed, do you need to ask why.)

With Sterling the racist one needs to take pause:
he airs neither honor nor umph.
But I'd Shula endorse. Donald Sutherland? 'Course!
I'm for ANY damn Donald but Drumpf.

Anyone For Go? (A Nonsense Rhyme_

Go ahead, scum: make my day! 

The Gobi, dry as dust...? No way!
Why Beckett’s Go-carts rarely go...?
They’re tired of waiting for Godot
to yodel “Go Down Moses”…no...?

No mangoes. No papayas, too...?

Then go for broke: try honeydew!
To Go-gos goes our dancing Jim,
like Gog and Magog ante him.
Go, Jimbo! Go hard to that rim!

“Go in and out the window”...? Yep!

Chicago jazz buffs scat that step.
They’ve raced – Goku and Superman –
in Golan and in Kazakhstan.
(Golightly...? Holly also ran.)

If Gomer Pyle’s a baritone, 

perhaps his gonads aren’t his own.
Let’s all go o’er the fiscal bluff
like Pogo Possum – in the buff,
or Gopher Pyle, who plies, “Enough!”

Go quietly...? Give up the ghost...?

Not Edward Gorey: he’d riposte.
Give up the ghost...? Not Edward G.,
our go-to guy for drollery.
(That man’s got milk – goat’s milk has he.)

“Go ugly late,” Govinda ‘llows.

“Works fine when eyin’ eine’s fraus.”
So says the lama under vows,
the actor (“Well played: take your bows!”),
or else the god who herds the cows.*

     * Lama Govinda (1898-1985), actor 
Govinda Ahuja (1963-   ) or Krishna’s young 
cowherding avatar Govinda.

Go west, Herr Doctor! Drive that ox!

(Like Seuss, I choose to box my Gox
while shabbous goyim shed their clothes.
How shall you know 'em...? Note their...hose.
(I guess Go’zilla’s one of those.)

Annus Terribilis or His First Year in Office

  
Spawn'd down some dank janitorial drain,

embolden'd by bogeymen febrile and dumpy,

besmirch'd by the marking of murderous Cain, 

Drumpf howls to who'll hear: "Apres moi, heirloom Trumpy." 

Fowl fluids -- muck, mayonnaise -- flow from twinn'd heads.

To Darwinian laws of the jungle Drumpf hews

as opponents Drumpf juliennes, minces and shreds:

Drumpf's ascendency augurs a world of fake news.

It’s severe civil sepsis I'm worried about.

Still, should dirges in octaves be suffer'd to swell?

Wa-a-a-a-ay too late for novenas; our time's running out.

Ple-e-e-ease! Abort this indecent descent into hell. 

"Dawns the Year of the Rat..." A Duodecennial Calendar

Dawns the Year of the Rat –

time to knot one’s cravat,
don equestrian hat 
and suede socks,
grab one’s fat fungo bat
and, departing one’s flat,
nail naff neighbors – ker-splat! -- 
with pop rocks.
Dear oh dear: here’s the Year of the Ox.

Dawns the Year of the Ox.
First, reset all the clocks.
Doing thus should outfox 
Rodney Steiger,
whose homage to Guy Fawkes
closes Pandora’s box:
Just hope Herr Muller talks 
to Herr Geiger!
But look here: here’s the Year of the Tiger.

Dawns the Year of the Tiger.
A white cub haunts my gar-
age; full-grown cats cry, “Gr-r-r-r…” 
(Bad habit.)
and when habitat’s nigh gar-
ment districts, feed dry gar-
lic toasts to it, via 
Dad's sabot.
Give a cheer! Here’s the Year of the Rabbit.

Dawns the Year of the Rabbit.
Bud (“Who’s on first...?”) Abbott
gets strip'd of his jabot 
for braggin,’
while Costello’s so drab, it
seems Lou ought to nab it.
Without it, his habit's 
seen saggin.’
Nothing queer: here’s the Year of the Dragon.

Dawns the Year of the Dragon,
When thirsts, off the wagon,
take more than one flagon 
to slake.
And, although I loathe raggin,’
green grog gets me gaggin.’
I s’ppose I’ll be baggin’ 
this take.
Nowt to fear: here’s the Year of the Snake.

Dawns the year of the Snake,
When each roue and rake
channels Samuel (“Jake”) 
F. B. Morse
and dons thaub of a sheik,
boils his Sal’sbury steak
and throws up, for Pete’s sake. 
(My! How coarse!)
(Hold your sneer: here’s the Year of the Horse.)

Dawns the Year of the Horse.
Must each child of divorce
to the island of Cors-
ica float...?
Yes, she must! (If she’s Norse,
sugar daddies, of course,
shall supply a sound source 
for her boat.)
Now we’re nearing the Year of the Goat.

Dawns the Year of the Goat.
Ev’ry grandee of note
Must remark (and I quote): 
“I’m a junkie!”
Whereupon each must troat
us his suicide note.
It’s as if each one wrote 
“Death: how funky!”
Dry that tear: here’s the Year of the Monkey.

Dawns the Year of the Monkey,
when girls who wax spunky –
like Elsa or Punky 
nee Brewster –
sleep with boys who look hunky,
whose pecs appear chunky.
Not one proves a flunky 
like Wooster.)
Let’s be clear: here’s the Year of the Rooster.

“Dawns the Year of the Rooster,"
sings Simon to Schuster.
“Tis time, sir, that you stir 
the grog.
All it needs is a booster,
the way good stuff us’d ter.”
Thereon, Carly loos'd her 
pet frog.
Let us veer towards the Year of the Dog.

Dawns the Year of the Dog,
when small shifts in typog-
raphy made on one’s blog 
show up big.
Yet, although I would flog
neither dead horse or hog,
the result is but smog. 
Do you dig...?
It appears here’s the Year of the Pig.

Dawns the Year of the Pig,
when folks claim how this gig
must fall flat and renege 
on its promise:
there’s the Joe who’s a prig,
those who don’t give a fig,
and one mean Mr. Big: 
Doubtful Thomas.
(Sorry: no years devoted to llamas.)

Measures for -(m)ay, Modified

A's an arch admiral: "Anchors aweigh!" 
B's Blue-foot Boobies b'yond Botany Bay.
C's the cute cove calling China 'Cathay.' 
D's a dress dummy dubb’d Daphne deLaye 
E edits Edna St. Vincent Millay. 
F's the fluke fat filling flounder filet.
G's Gorey's goatee gone gunmetal grey. 
H heralds Hallowmas hauntings. (Hearsay.)
I...? Is it Ireland's interr’d IRA...? 
J's just some junta: jerks 'jacking José.
K is a kaffir kid: KKK prey.
L is a love lyric. Last line...? "Lullay."
M is "Mid-morning..." by Manet Monet. 
N is a nickel. (Nets nada…? No way!) 
O's an odd ointment call’d "Oil of Ole!" 
P' is the piper poor peons must pay. 
Q is Quixote's inquisitive way.
R...? R is Roentgen. (Who re-named his ray…?) 
S is the Sphinx. (Speaks with Caesars, Shaw'd say.) 
T is a teapot: there’s two on Tante’s tray. 
U is the undead. (They're us. USA!) 
V...? V is‘void.' (For ‘avoid,’ add an ‘a.’ 
W’s Wizards. Will Wall walk away...? 
X...? X is'xebec.' (One 'x' but no 'k.') 
Y is a yacht. (Call’d a yawl yesterday.) 
Z is a zorse. (Zebu…? Zebra…? Zak...? May-...) 

Hommage a Ang: a Nonsense Crambo

Here lies the Taiwanese cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lie the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

How lie relations with Asians? Entangl’y,
because of the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the drone (at twelve stone, he looms gangl’y)
whose network's relations with Asians prove tangl'y,
who’s running the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the black op who lurks atop Langley
who weighs in at twelve stone and’s gruesome and gangl’y,
whose network’s relations with Asians prove tangl’y,
who’s running the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the nation whose policy’s angl’y,
which sponsors the black op who lurks atop Langley
who weighs in at twelve stone and’s gruesome and gangl’y,
whose network’s relations with Asians prove tangl’y,
who’s running the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here lies the ruler whose soul’s turned meringuely,
who spearheads the nation whose polity’s angl’y,
which sponsors the black op who lurks atop Langley
who weighs in at twelve stone and’s gruesome and gangl’y,
whose network’s relations with Asians prove tangl’y,
who’s running the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee. 

Here lies the tale, told in accents Da Nangly,
which rants of the ruler whose soul’s turned meringuely,
who spearheads the nation whose polity’s angl’y,
which sponsors the black op who lurks atop Langley
who weighs in at twelve stone and’s gruesome and gangl’y,
whose network’s relations with Asians prove tangl’y,
who’s running the lug rend’ring foreign-borns mangl’y,
who licensed the strangler whose ascot – star-spangl’y –
he dropped near the high tops whose bells made ‘em jangl’y,
which, joined with the flak jacket – chic and new-fangl’y –
mismatched with the cap – beaded, baubled and bangl’y –
which cradled the crown of the cineaste Ang Lee.

Here…? Lies!

Hommage a Arnold

The stang, in Oslo, measures stuff. 
At three-plus yards, it’s long enough.
The Gnats...? Just quiz the RAF: 
jet engine noise leaves flyboys deaf.
The Tangs are either “swigs in space” 
or kingdoms with a Chinese face.
The Tsang...? A province in Tibet 
where’s writ a Lhasan alphabet.
The gnats are tiny flying pests 
who put the bite on party guests.
'Beganst’'s abbreviated ‘‘ganst.’ 
(Don’t say thou say it can’t: thou canst.)
Your angst -- your deep, distressing dread -- 
won’t let you leave your Murphy bed.
A dead or dying spark’s a gnast. 
It's out...? They've snuff'd your flame at last.

'Allo, Al or the Cobbler's Children Have No Shoes (A Nonsense ABC)

I’m Alan Turing, crack at sums, but call me Al! ‘Allo there, chums.

At Arles (ask any ardent sergeant), alch’mists’ apelings ‘ave no argent. 

I’m Albert of Saxe-Coberg-Gotha, once dubb'd “Al, Prince Consort.” (Quotha!)

Bath’s the burg, Brits’ Baed’kers note: bare boatswains’ bairns bleat, “Blast! No boat!”

C’est moi? Alceste, le misanthrope. Je m’appelle Al. Mais oui; je mope.

How come? Because in Coromandel chandlers’ cubs cry, “Crap! No candle!”

I’m Aldhelm, Anglo-Latinist. Just call me Al. Do! I insist.

Down Deale way, where I’d duly ventured, dentists’ daughters die undentured.

I’m Alexander. (Ain’t I great?) Please call me Al. (It’s ‘Lex’ I hate.)

In Deale, despite laments and kvetchings, etchers’ enfants earn no etchings.

Alfalfa, masked? A “Stymie”d Rascal? I ain’t frickin’ Eddie Haskell.

Fact is: Frisco’s (also Berne’s), few florists’ fils effect no ferns.

I’m Algernon C. Swinburne, bard. My pen name’s ‘Al.’ See: here’s my card.

I’ve gazed, in Ghent, ‘pon ghastly scenes;: no grocers’ goslings garner greens.

I’m Al-Hakam, the Caliph, who you shall hail Al. (My eunuchs do.)

Heed Houston’s horrid habitats; her hatters’ half-pints have no hats.

I’m Ali Baba (God Is Great!) For short, it’s Al, and, may I state,

in Indore, indoors, it ain’t nice: its iceman’s imp cries, “I’ve no ice.”

I’m Al-Jons “Ste-Jeanne” Jones. At home, though, always Al. Our garden gnome

in Junee jeers at jaded folks whose jesters’ juniors jaw, “No jokes!”

I’m al-Khowarizmi. The babes just call me Al. When near the neighbs

of Kush, one kens (I know: it’s kloddish) klezmers’ kids keen, “Gosh! No Kaddish!”

I’m Allen Iverson, ex-Sixer. (Still, “The Answer” ain’t no Knick, sir.)

Lantz? Look close: a God loves jocks, no locksmith’s lambs be latchin’ locks.

I’m Almodad. My Dad’s called Smem. My nickname’s ‘Al.’ My apothegm?

Imagine mutts ‘mongst mack’s menages: moms’ mites moan, “I missed massages.”

I’m Allnut (“Nutz”) Chanel III. Mon nom est Al. In Nome, I’ve heard

(enough to know it’s not uncanny). Nursemaids’ nips? No naps! No nanny!

We’re Aloysius from Gonzaga. Call us Al! Attend our saga!

Oft in hard Falls, oft in soft Springs, oblates old disown odd offsprings.

I’m Alphonse, Comte de Poitiers. Foes pronounce it ‘Pal.’ (They’re otiose.)

Phnom Penh pals post re pit’ful scenes; “Poor penmen’s prog’ny pine, ‘No pen.’”

I’m Al Qosh Aref, from Iraq. So: call me Al. So: there’s this block

in Qatar where queer quarr’lsome sorts quote quarr’men’s quints, “Requir’ed: quit quartz!”

I’m Al (“Right!”) Braithewaite, ombudsman. That’s right: “Right”’s Al. He’s just begun

his reign in Rab, where rabble rale, “Yeah: ragmen’s runts rate rude regalia.”

I’m Alsace Hapsburg, billionaire. Al trades as Al. While in St. Clair,

Al spots sad scenes (so sad Al’s feeling): shoppers’ shrimps shan’t score sans stealing.

I’m Altair Browne, named for a star. ‘Tair’s true tag? Al. ‘Tair’s turf? Tokar,

where tough teen thugs maintain, through grins, that “tinkers’ tots touch (tsk!) no tins.”

I’m Alumemnon Silverstein, or Rabbi Al. I ought not whine

But…umps in Ur? Well- (usu’lly) cladded. Umpires’ urchins? Underpadded!

I’m Alvah, Duke of Edom. Friends: address me ‘Al’ What brings on bends?

In Vac, despite vast vineyards (Pinot), vintners’ virgins vaunt no vino.

I’m Alwin L. Jarreau. L.A., who calls me Al, would rue the day

Wa went way weird ‘n’ wild (no good!): whine woodsmen’s whelps, “Whoa! Where’s one’s wood?”

I’m Alxer (“Ox”) Kopay, a clone aka Al. Folks ask, “What’s flown?”

The xenagogue at Xau well knows: the xen’gogue’s xenettes’ xis and rhos.

Alypius (that’s me!) I chose the handle Al. Do you suppose

yon Yozgat’s just like Yap? You’ll learn: Yap’s yogi’s young’uns yen; they yearn.

I’m Alz-…Alzhiem-…Alz-… Don’t forget: I’m (let’s zee)…Al! (Zay! Haz we met?)

At Zamz, alzough zuch zeems zans-real, zere, zen priezts’ zipzterz? Zero zeal!

Al…oha!

All the Aals (A Nonsense ABJ)

A is for all of the aals Al allows in Al's Salsa.

B is for bountiful bowels (burp!) betrayed by the aals Al allows in Al's Salsa.

C is for charming Czech chars cleaning crappers in bars badly fouled by brown’d bowels ("Bounty Toweled? Bloody aals!) Al allows in Al’s Salsa.

D's for some drei dozen dowels used deploying dry towels, towels consumed by Czech charwomen chary of bowels, bowels betrayed by the aals ("...BHA'd by the aals?") Al
allows in Al's Salsa.

E's for the erudite e-mails each evening sent females detained dragging dowels, drilling cores, dressed in cowls, all consumed by chic charwomen cautious 'round bowels,
bowels betrayed by the aals ("...ballonet'd by the aals?") Al allows in Al’s Salsa.

F's for flat files flaunting feminine wiles sent (in error) in e-mails to educate females who drill down through dowels, dandy cores for crimped t*w*ls (spelt employing
orthography using no vowels), towels consumed by Czech chars cleaning bathrooms in bars -- biker bars (bars called "Bubba's" or "Jolly Jack Tar's") whose bartenders and bouncers? Best kept behind bars -- big bars badgered and bothered and browbeat by bowels, bowels betrayed by the aals ("...Beaujolais'd by the aals?) Al allows in Al's Salsa.

G is, by golly, for gum gaily gnoshed by twin dumb femme fatalettes whose wiles fill pornography files sent in error by e-mail, enjoining each female, "Keep drilling those dowels, darn ya’ll!" -- [Deftly drilled dowels provide cores for the towels, and the ladies who drill, christened "Whores de la Towels," Al calls "borers of dowels"] -- mosty dowels for the towels, cloths consumed by chic chars (who arrive in fine cars) chary -- very! -- of bowels, bowels betrayed by the aals ("...buerre manie'd by the aals?") Al allows in
Al's Salsa.

H is for haberdashed hats hiding hundreds of cats whose guts ghouls grind for gum gaily gnoshed by some dumb femme fatalettes whose wiles found (unfiltered!) in files sent in error in e-mails to estrogen’d females who drill all those dowels -- done as cores for the towels, cloths consumed by chained chars forced to check any bowels badly trod on by aals ("...blah-blah-blah'd by the aals?") Al allows in Al's Salsa.

I is for indigo isles -- drained by Indigo Niles running through 'em like aisles -- I've inhabited, miles from the hundreds of hats hiding hundreds more cats from whose guts gals get gum gnoshed...again, clumsy dumb femme fatalettes whose wiles are finessed in fat files sent in error in e-mails to employees – females! – who drill all those dowels (disregard, please, their scowls) dowels consumed by chic chars, cool as cuc- ( * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ) bowels been betrayed by the aals ("...Beau Marche'd by those aals?") Al allows in Al's Salsa.   
           * Lines indicated by asterisks represent a lacuna of eight beats occurring in the original.

J’s for…why, J's just the jails justly jammed by the males now indicted for stealing (plea's in; they're appealing) those hoards of fedoras 'neath which hide Angoras grim goons change to gum...and again, here's those dumb femme fatalettes whose wiles folks find featured in files sent (correctly!) by e-mails to three males -- all key males -- who drill all those dowels, at day's end, cores for towels, towels consumed by crazed chars...chars still chary of bowels, bowels betrayed by the aals ("...Ballantrae'd by those aals?") Al allows in Al's Salsa.

K's for… ("Hey! Pis aller!")