Queries of a Jabber Wonk

Where's it written it had to've been brillig...?
Were the toves all that slithy...? Or what...?
Did the wabe witness gyring...?
Most find gyring tiring --
though who'd not give gimbling a shot...?
Were the borogoves totally mimsy,
or proved mimsiness partial at worst...?
Did those raths label'd 'mome'
(had those mome raths no home...?)
outgribe piecemeal...? Or did they first burst...?

Shun Pence? "Bon Chence!"

Two pence, four pence, six pence, a buck.
Mike Pence...? No sense. So-o-o-o dense: yuck!
Whence our defense 'gainst this schmuck,
this prince 'mongst bad gents Pence...? Good luck!

Prosopogostichs for Georges Perec

In his nonsense verse “How pleasant to know Mr. Lear” the 
popularizer of the limerick makes amusing observations 
about himself. In the nonsense octave below readers are 
urged to discover an equally intriguing character who, it’s 
hoped, will prove just as amusing and, in the end, just 
as “not unpleasant to know.”

Not unpleasant to know...? Monsieur Perec
whose locale is the alphanumeric.
His Oulipian lists skirt the xeric 
while his novels ensnare the chimeric.
Though his visage some view as barbaric
(few confuse him for cultural cleric),
to reforge pleasant Georges, surnamed Peric,
would "iron"ical prove (fully-ferric).

Let's Just Saey (Sic) It Ain't Rosy-fingered

Todaey the daey dawn'd graey-on-graey --
so graey that 'daey,' 'todaey' and 'graey'
must each (all three, or so they saey)
be spelt with e-augmented 'a.'

Notable Nobs Not Unpleasant to Know: Italo Calvino

Not unpleasant to know...? The Calvino
whom his mom named Italo, not Dino --
an artiste, even when a bambino.
Counting cards in his cousin's casino
left no time to play Keno in Reno,
though he did treat the antineutrino
in his book Cosmicomics. Calvino
is a paradox. No...? Just ask Zeno.

Book of Uncommon Prayers: A Constrained Communion

          I. A Prayer to Vengeful Virgins

Hail, Mary, full of grace, 
who'd nail canary, bull or dace* 
with "c'est la guerre!"s and sprays of mace.
     * A small European freshwater fish.

          II. The Terse Trinitarian's Prayer

Pater noster Qui es in coelis:
You know I've no clew where Your Jew's holy grail is.
C'mon, Holy Ghost*: give a hint! Please, don't fail us! 
     * A vernacular riff on 'Veni Sancte Spiritus,' Catholic liturgy's so-called Golden Sequence.

          III. Vespers for Virtual Victims

Now I lay me down to sleep. 
You’ll get more than a frown if I hear one more peep:
Do not make me come in there, you [BLEEP] little [BLEEP]!

         IV. The Grace of the Grateful Giftee

Bless us O Lord and these, Thy gifts:
first, the car (a new Ford!); second, Jonathan Swift's
"On a Very Old Glass"; third, your used pair of lifts...*
     * Hitchens was right:  the Diety used to be taller -- much, much taller.

          V. This I Believe: a Congressional Credo

I believe in God the Father Almighty
(though I vote Progressive while He's quite the righty:
pro-guns, anti-gays -- and so very uptight, He...)

          VI. An Orison to Overzealous Ministering Spirits

Angel of God, my guardian dear:
when it comes to companions, I've known not your peer.
Nonetheless, take a powder: my folks think I’m queer.

           VII. An Appeal for Imprisoned Androids 

May the road rise up to meet you
(though you're jailed, with R2D2
and C3PO -- in situ).

          VIII. A Litany for Lost Wallets

God grant me some serenity,
if, buying some amenity,
I misplace my identity!

          IX. A Gnosher's Plea

The Lord is my Shepherd: I shall not want
for no tiramisu nor no almond croissant --
nor no artisan cheeses from Cabot, Vermont.

          X. A Supplication of the Sceptic 

Jesus loves me -- yeah, I know.
And so does last Stooge Curly Joe
and Marilyn Monroe, yes? No.

Bogart In Hell: A Constrained Rewrite

      (Day 2) 

     Fred C. Dobbs: 
"If yer plannin' on smokin' them cigars, 
you'll need matches. Where's yer matches...? 
Let's see 'em."
     Gold Hat: 
"Matches...? We ain't got no matches. 
We don't need no matches. I don't have to 
show you no stinkin' matches." 

     (Day 736) 

     Fred C. Dobbs: 
"If yer as poor as ya claim, yer serapes' be 
full o' patches. Where's yer patches...? 
Let's see 'em.
     Gold Hat: "Patches...? We ain't got no patches. 
We don't need no patches...  

     (Day 82,054)

     Fred C. Dobbs: "If ya'd just come 
from Ash Wednesday service, yer foreheads'd be 
smudg'd with ashes. Where's yer ashes...?
Let's see 'em."
     Gold Hat: "Ashes...? We ain't got no ashes. 
We don't need....  

     (Day 9,998,976,001) 
     
     Fred C. Dobbs: 
"If yer compadres were really members
of the Italian Socialist Party, they'd be Fascists. 
Where's yer Fascists...? 
Let's see 'em.
     Gold Hat: "Fascists...? 
We ain't got no Fascists... 

     (Day 6,392,805,620,395,847) 
     
     Fred C. Dobbs: 
"If ya keep insistin' on sashayin' around 
in them skimpy two-piece bathin' suits, you'll 
need pageants. Where's your pageants...? 
Let's see 'em...
     Gold Hat: 
"Pageants...?” 

     (Day 83,492,736,574,839,283,759,293)
     
     Fred C. Dobbs: 
"If yer true Muslims you’ll need hajjes. 
Where's yer hajjes..." 

Body Parts: A Constrained Alphabet

A’s for the arm some Italians will take*
when you give 'em a hand (Drumpf’s? An inch wide!) to shake.
B’s for the brow. It’s the forehead you furrow
when badgeless bandidos start burgling your burro.
C’s for the chin on which chumps are seen taking it.
Guilty as charged? Yep! ‘Tain’t no use opaqueing it.
     * Dagli una mano e lui prendera in braccio.

D’s for the derma – what dimwits call skin.
White or black, it’s, in fact, the original sin.
E’s for the elbow, a part none save fools
choose to stick in their ears. I know few sharper tools.
F’s for the finger – precisely, the third –
which one gives unto others – or so I have heard.

G is for genitals – snipped when you’re Jewish.
(Or, maybe, for gentiles: I’m, sadly, sans clueish.)
H? For the hip. It’s the place where best pals
seem so frequently joined. (Pals are “lezzies” when gals.)
I’s for intestines. To view 'em brings chills.
(Or, perhaps, for intestates who die lacking wills.)

J's for the jugular. That’s where they start
when their final objective’s to cut out your heart.
K’s for the kneecap – what repo men break
when your juice loan repayments you’re failing to make.
L’s for the lips. They’re the pair you’re to read
when you dad doubles down on what first he decreed.

M’s for the mammaries, known to become
overblown as your girlfriend’s becoming a mum.
N’s for the nails, parts of fingers and toes
to which polish adheres. (N is also for nose.)
O’s for the ovaries – right after ‘nails.’
They’re so called ‘cause they’re “’over re-‘marked on” my males.

P’s for the palms which are found on your hands.
(P is also for trees found in cyclone-prone lands.)
Q’s for the quadriceps – sections of thighs
which are over-developed in muscle-bound guys.
R’s for the rib, from which God fashioned Eve –
one more tale among many I’m loathe to believe.

S? For the shin. It’s the part you will bark
if your bare leg encounters my shin in the dark.
T’s for the tongue. White ones, shaped like a fork,
Coughed up twenty four dollars to purchase New York.
U: for umbilical cord? Nope! For uterus.
(Either or both, though, prove utile to tutor us.)

V’s for the veins. They’re cerulean blue –
and, if vericose, horribly hideous, too.
W’s wisdom teeth. Powder or paste
fails to save them. (It’s also for wrinkles and waist.)
X is for xiphoid – more process than part
and but rarely mistaken for kidney or heart.

Y’s for the yolk sac – in people, not eggs.
In a fetus, it’s larger than lobes, lungs or legs.
Z’s for the zonule of Zinn (Would I lie?),
but this Zinn isn’t Howard, it’s some other guy,
His name’s Johann Gottfried. He, Howard and I
here bid you – and each part of your body -- “goodbye!”

An Almost Atonal Aria: Constrained Nonsense in Rhyme

Songs in C? Sung gleefully
since singers were pre-natal.
Tunes in F? The favored clef
of yod’lers in the cradle.

C-sharp rounds are rife with sounds
which summon up -weiss, edel-.
Lays in A, chanteuses say,
go dandy with a dreidel.

Duets in B? “The master key, “
claims Hansel’s sister Gretel.
Hymns in G flow gracefully,
like syrup from Mom’s ladle.

Sing airs in D? No sir! Not me!
(Though crooners in Kuwail’ll.)
Chansons in E? De corps esprit!
But strains in A flat? Fatal!

Ask the Man Who Owns One: Constrained Nonsense in Rhyme

Ask, “Who owns that recipe,
the chanterelles-with-champignons one?”
Ask, “Whose tones grace that CD,
the Ravi Shankar/Norah Jones one?” –
Ask, “Who phones that debutante,
the New York Stock Exchange / Dow Jones one?”
Yet, to learn what women want,
you have to ask the man who owns one.

Ask, “Quelle heure be early tea,
the pekoe-black-with-buttered-scones one?”
Ask, “Who’s earned her law degree,
the can’t-pay-off-her-student-loans one?”
Ask, “Whose turn to test détente,
the ‘where’d-who-hide-whose-hotline-phones?’ one?”
Yet, to learn what women want.
you have to ask the man who owns one.

Ask, “Where floats my treasured isle,
the Long-John-Silver / Billy-Bones one?”
Ask, “Where’s my surveillance file,
the UAVs-aka-drones one?”
Ask, “Who’d dare through Kut to jaunt,
the ‘Don’t-Go-Green:-Go-Gingham-Zones!’ one?”
Yet, to learn what women want,
you have to ask the man who owns one.

Ask, “Who penned Will’s tragedy,
the Lady-Mac-and-three-weird-crones one?”
Ask, “Who’ll Ness’s badge lend me,
the flashed-at-Nittis-and-Capones one?”
Ask, “Who travels with my aunt,
the loves-the-Beatles / hates-the-Stones one?”
Yet, to learn what women want,
you still must ask the man who owns one.

Exit Ramp: A Constrained Political Strategy in Rhyme

(He'd die without our constant attention. His base feeds on that celebrity. Let's try running not towards him but away from him -- towards those who are working hard to replace his nonsense with responsible governing.)

If door-bust deal you plan to steal, best practice: run...don't walk! 
If neighbor's gate you'd "decorate," spray aerosol...don't chalk!
If folks you'd slur whose names end '-ner,' yell 'Hef-' or 'Shat-'! Don't 'Faulk-'! 
If Donald Drump you wish to dump, bypass the ass! (Don't stalk!) 

To batters who you'd say "Skiddoo!" just pitch the ball...don't balk!
If Tonys you would peer review, vet Blair! Quiz Quinn...don’t “Hawk”!
If Donald's reign's that big a bane, just stop all Donald talk!
In short, if Drump you'd re-e-e-eally dump, bypass the ass! (Don't stalk!)