"I run the clock..." A New Hesitation Waltz

I run the clock. I bide my time. 
The Great Procrastinator I’m.
I hesitate (though I’m not lost). 
I drag my feet at any cost.
I shilly-shally, I defer. 
I play the waiting game, for sure.
I stall. I drag. I temporize. 
I’m one of those “retarded” guys.
I’m quite the goldbrick, I’ll be bound. 
I give all work the runaround.
Each room I haunt's a waiting room. 
“NosSlomo” is my nom de plume.
I loiter. I put off. I pause. 
I filibuster – all because,
inevitably, I postpone. 
Good golly, how the time has flown!

"Slap downs! Slanders..."...And Counting: An Exasperation in Rhyme

(On some date mid-September, 2018, on his 601st day in office, President Donald Trump told his 5,000th public lie.)



Slap downs! Slanders! Lies called quips!
And Trump’s loose lips won’t sink his ships...?
Defamations! Slams and Slimes!
And Trump’s approval rating climbs...?

Dirty linens! Calumnies!
And Trump’s still not brought to his knees...?
Cheap shots! Smears! Aspersions! Mud!
And Trump still drones: “Sans Me, the Flood”...? 

Back stabs! Wink winks! Scandals! Dirt!
And still Trump’s GOP’s inert...?
Backbiting! Libels! Sneering! Slurs!
And still Trump’s obloquy recurs...?

Collusion! Greed! Corruption! Hate!
Who’ll rid us of this reprobate...?
Whose schnoz surpass does Donald’s nose?
Pinocchio’s! (And so it goes.)

"So racist. So sexist..." Friday (Any Friday) News Roundup

So racist. So sexist. So partisan, no?
So two-faced. So glib. So “how low can we go?”
So vicious. So cruel. So “we’d-rather-not-know.”
So baldly dishonest. So soulless. So faux.
So “ubi est mea?" (It’s all ‘bout the dough.)
So intolerant, crude. So unwilling to grow.
So shameless. So wrong. So unprincipled…whoa!  
Is this who we are? Well…apparently so.

"Does schmutz attack..." This Day in History (April 24th, 2018): Addressing Macron/Undrossing Macron

(During an appearance before the press on this day, President Trump's hand, notwithstanding its modest size and quite out of the blue, unceremoniously takes several swipes across PM Macron's shoulder, removing from it...what?) 

“Does schmutz attack your shoulder, Mac?
Sit better angels there?
Perhaps responsibility
rests heavy? Do I err?

You bear, perhaps, a chip? Or straps

from golf club bags which tear?
Your coif's a jock’s: no quiffs, no locks –
no bigly leader hair.

Rests Brigitte’s blonde head there, mon frere?

What’s that, then? Laissez-faire?
Stand dwarflings, shedding, on your shoulders?
That’s your own affair.

Aides tell me that you’re perfect,

that it's my job to take care
you stay that way. So, for today,
you shall no dandruff wear.”

"A is for Agnes who's legally blind..." More of The Gashlycrumb Seniors: A Second Short Sojourn At Archaedian Acres Retirement Village with Another Nod to Edward Gorey

(For GR) 

A is for Agnes who’s legally blind.
B is for Ben whose libido’s declined.

C is for Cora whose dentures show cracks.
D is for Doug suff’ring panic attacks.

E is for Earl overdue for a stroke.
F is for Flora whose walking frame broke.

G is for Gilbert whose gums are diseased.
H is for Hortense whose bowels have seized.

I is for Irma whose hormones are shot.
J is for Jorge: who knows what he’s got?

K is for Kitty who misplaced her wig.
L is for Laszlo whose prostate’s too big.

M is for Miles. His new catheter leaks.
N is for Nell who’s not eaten for weeks.

O is for Olive. They think it’s TB.
P is for Phil with not one cyst but three.

Q is for Quinn with the haphazard bladder.
R is for Ruth. Fell afoul of a ladder.

S is for Sid showing weakness of bone.
T is for Trish. Overdoes the cologne.

U is for Uly with unexplained aches.
V is for Vi suff’ring violent shakes.

W’s Wyn’fred who talks in her sleep.
X is for Xavier: still the same (bleep).

Y’s for Yaletha who’s fallen…again.
Z is for Zeke. Requiescat. Amen.

"Snouts of pigs who hab housing..." B**k Reports: Seven Themes Explicated in Ersatz Terza Rimas

     I. Disney porkers' snouts fall short of celebrity's probosces. 

Snouts of pigs who hab housing with straw, sticks and bricks? 
Pugs! Durante and Bergerac, famed for their beaks,
rout ‘em. Jimmy and Cyrano's? Noses of freaks!

     II. Classical music is superior to jazz.

Herren Johann Sebastian and C.P.E., Bachs,
trump top trumpeter Beiderbeck, nickname o’ Bix,
here heard honing his Wolverine Orchestra licks. 

     III. Apartheid thrives in Soweto

Onyx, ebony, charcoal and licorice, blacks,
overshadow the skins of South African blokes 
who wind up as the butts of insensitive jokes. 

     IV. Diversity trumps ability

Messrs. David and Mel, with Louise, bubbly Brooks, 
team with Clifford and Arnold, boys (brothers!) born Bax.
The quintet seems possessed of all manner of knacks.

     V. French cuisine blows away kitchen kitch

Mses. Martha and Julia: each biddy bakes,
crafting cookies, crepes, cupcakes, nor not from a box.
About Stewart I’m hesitant. Julia rocks!

     VI. It’s better to be smart than to look smart.

Brothers Bezos and Zuckerberg scored the big bucks.
And while both boys deserved ‘em – or so say their books --
each excelled using grey matter, never good looks.

     VII. The medium is only half the message.  

William (first name) and Edwards (surname): both be Blakes.
Both be visual artists, too -- right off their blocks.
One graves prints, one shoots films. Both boss -- down to their socks.

"Whosoever, when vexed..." A-a-a-argh to Zut: Abecedarial Ecphoneses in Rhyme

Whosoever, when vex'd, cries, “Alack ‘n’ alas!”

now’s found out: said bloke’s nowt but one silly old ass
And whoever’s reposte to his host be a “Blimey!”
be born ‘n’ bred Brit. Take a look: he’s a Limey.

Whose lips, if rubb'd shoulders with, flip you a “Crap!”
must be firmly persuaded to zip up their yap.
And whose routine rejoinder’s a snappy “Dagnabbit!”’s
a cad. (That poor lad must be cured of his habit.)

Whose sole observation, when stump'd, is “Egad!”
shall be mark'd out for fatwa. He’s earned our jihad.   
And who, topping your zinger, “Fie! Fiddlesticks!” cries
must be blackball'd. (He’s never been one of the guys.)

Whose tat for your tit is “Good Golly, Miss Molly!”
rates pokes in his eyes. To do less were sheer folly.
Who, swallowing goldfish, declares “Hoochie-mamma!”
must forfeit his dinner – and spare us the drama.

From among whom soil'd nappies elicit an “Ick!”
as our nannies-elect we’re reluctant to pick.
And who, emptying slops, bleats a brash “Jordeloo!”
warrants quick castigation. (I would. So would you.)

Would that “Kusipää!”s (they’re Helsink’ese for ‘stinkers’)
should stick in their craws! (Aren't we all wishful thinkers?)
And who -- prim Pollyannas! -- purr “Lord love a duck!”
should be stifl'd – before those rude schmucks run amok.

Who delivers his “Merde!”s as rhetorical questions
should hush – or have you some more useful suggestions?
Who caps each exchange with a curt “Nenorocit!”*
needs choking – nor am I embarrassed to broach it
    * Pronounced ‘ne no RO tjit’

Who too oft commits to the “Odsbod’kins!” curse
should, instead, utter “Drat!” (We have all heard far worse.)
And who’ll not put a sock in his “Poppycock!” talk
won’t be scrutinized walking the circumspect walk.

Who showboats his quiet, though quaint, “Quotha!” quip
now must cease and desist...and (Good Lord!) get a grip.
And who turns a blind eye – with a wry “Ruat caelum!” –
to immigrants’ plights cedes his rights of asylum.

Who stutters when spitting his twee little “Strewth!”
should be caned ‘cross the thigh – as was I in my youth.
And who mimics the pool boys with taunts of “Tu madre!”
must spend his off hours with a whole ‘nother cadre.

Who to not “Unberufen!” but “Up yours!” gives voice
shall be ask'd to recant. Give that yob Hobson’s choice.
And who blurts out a “Voertsak!” (he might be a Boer)
must admit that he’s now crossed the line. This means war!

Whose word when he’s wrung out’s a wan “Wellaway!”
should just go – though he may be encouraged to stay.
And whose “xpletives,” although deleted, are foul
will continue to make all well-spoken folks howl.

Those blokes -- there be sev’ral – who sum up with “Yoiks!”
are – please let me be clear -- but a couple o' “joiks.”
And who, lastly, expounds his alarm with a “Zounds!”
blurts his blasphemy barefaced. (Foul language abounds.)

"A version of straw..." Constrained Nonsense Verse on the Anagram 'ARTS'

A, R, T and S rearranged several ways yield (with the addition of punctuation) a series of words and phrases which in turn prompt an array of explanatory verses, albeit nonsensical.

                  STRA and SART
Here? A version of 'straw' drawl'd down rural UK...
and some Sunnis, of whom one is labeled "Uday."   

                         SR. T. A. -- i.e., S(iste)r T. A.-- and RATS
Here is Sister Tish Anne, my parochial school third-grade teach-...(the ol' bat)... 
and some mice (?) (see 'S' RAT*)    

                  TRAS -- i.e., SART reversed -- and STAR
Here? A 's(m)art' reassembly (its order reversed!)... 
and a heavenly body. (Let's hope she don't burst!)   

                  TRAS (again) and ‘TRA’S -- i.e., several of the first third of ‘tra-la-la’s 
Here are certain tin coins, known to net but small worth... 
and some vocables sung 'round the day of His birth.    

                  SAT‘R -- i.e., ‘sat(y)r’ -- and “S” RAT -- i.e., the 19^th squealer in the series
Here's a half man/half goat... 
and the 19th lab rodent (See RATS) in experiments needin' a coat.

                  ARTS and AR‘ST
Here are more than the single aesthetical skill... 
and to take into "custodie officielle."  

                  TSAR and T.S., RA!
Here? Imperial Russia's ex-ruler (so-called)... 
and "Tough shit, Senor Sun God!" (You've not heard? He's bald!) 

                  R: SAT and RT. SA – i.e., the lower half of some trans-American highway
Here's the Student Achievement Test taken for Russe... 
and the road from Caracas to Chile's caboose.

                  AT’RS – i.e., ‘at(ta)rs – and A.T., SR. – i.e., A.T. S(enio)r.
Here? Aromas and odors, some scents and a smell...
and one Art (Fish 'n’ Chips) Treacher's paterfamil-'.  

                  RAST and R’STA – i.e., ‘r(a)sta’
Here's the past participle of "reest" -- viz., "to balk" (lingua veterinarian)...
or Rastafarian.

                  AST’R – i.e., ast(i)r’ – and AS’RT – i.e., ‘as(so)rt’
Here is 'early to rise'... 
and -- according to one or another criterion -- 'categorize.'  

                 TAS’R – i.e., ‘tas'r” – and TARS
An electroshock gun, used precipitously... 
and Brit sailors (named Jack, serendipitously).  

                  T’R S.A.! – i.e., ‘T(ou)r S(outh) A(merica)!
(verses to come: a work in progress)

                  R’TAS – i.e., ‘sat(y)r’ spelt backwards
Here's that half man/half goat runnin’ 'round...in reverse (cf  SAT'R above)... 
and the end of my verse!

"I am gone to the fair..." One Gone Boy's Ongoing Monograph on 'Going...Going..."

(Is my sorry ass outta here? Whatta you think?)


I am gone to the fair. I am gone to the moon. 
Much like Vincent van Gogh, I am gone much too soon.  
(I am gone to the Congo with Margo and Mongo
and Santo Domingo with Mingo and Ringo.)

I'm gone and forgotten. I’m gone with the wind. 
I am gone off the rails and I'm wholly chagrin'd.
(I am gone to Oswego with Pete, mi amigo.
I'm gone, too, to Togo with cineman Vigo.)  

I'm gone for a soldier, gone out of my way, 
'cuz in 60-some seconds my car's gone away.
(I am gone to Chicago with Joachin Rodrigo.
To, too, former -slavia, Yugo-...with Hugo.) 

That pioneer Gone Girl, Maud Gonne, had gone viral 
before she'd been seen gone to ground in the Tyrol.
(To Don's Mar-a-Lago I'm gone with Iago.
Skip Trinidad, prego! I'm gone to Tobago.) 

I'm long gone, gone missing -- gone quietly, too. 
I am gone off the deep end. (I'm gone West. Are you?)
(Cryin,' "Leggo my Eggo!" I'm gone with Diego.
I'm gone to play bingo with quolls and a dingo.) 

I'm goin' bananas. I'm gone all the way. 
I am gone by tomorrow -- though not gone today.    
(I am gone to a Gogo with Albert and Pogo.
Permit me my ego: I fashion'd their logo.) 

I'm gone to Gondwana -- gone out on a limb 
with The Sting's Henry Gondorff. (You do recall him?)
I am gone to tell Rhody, my great-aunt from Goshen,
who, when she plays Go, always goes in slow motion. 

I am gone to the Golan with Magog and Gog.
I'm gone through the Gobi with Phileas Fogg.
I'm gone, too, to Goa -- that trip's quite the slog.
I am gone on about it all, here on my blog. 

Aboard -sauruses, Stego-, past sagebrush and sego,
I'm gone -- Pago Pago -- with Melville's Tashtego. 
(I'm gone on "The Gong Show" when only a child. 
I am gone in a gondola...twice...going wild!)

I do not go for Godot with Didi and Gogo.
I'm gone, though, to Gondar, Republic of Congo.
I'm gone there to oogle Godiva, a Virgo.
I'm gone Decartesian...with "Sum, ergo cogo."

Gone native, gone bankrupt, gone soft and gone glass.* 
And when gone to my final rest, I'm gone first class...
...cryin', "Go fly a kite, Gophers! Go fuck yourselves! 
Make sure Go Set a Watchman's long gone from your shelves!"
     * In basketball, said of a scorer who banks his shot 
off the hoop's glass backboard.

I am goin' down, Moses. I’m gone! Gone for good. 
(Who? Me? Go on a diet? I’m not – though I should.)  
What's not gone? Gonorrhea: each gonad's gone rotten. 
('Tis hard, gone too far, to know what one has gotten.)

Gone south and gone fishin,' I’m gone for the gold. 
I am gone, in a handcart, to hell, so I’m told.  
I am gone to the dogs. I'm gone thither, gone yon. 
Just like George Gershwin’s Robbins, I’m gone, gone, gone...gone.



(Further departures being immanent, this work is perhaps 
best considered "gonegoing." Or perhaps not.)

"T.S.E. won't eat..." Seconal-Amendment Remedy in Rhyme; or, J. Alfred Pruf Rocks as Drumpf's Head Rolls!

(How many New Jersey citizens, Muslim or infidel, will be spotted cheering ecstatically once this rhyme is widely broadcast? Estimates vary. Still, all readers are encouraged to use any or all of these verses as double-Dutch counting rhymes in their celebratory festivities.)

“T.S.E. won’t eat no peach.”* (Prufrock...Prufrock!) Mermaids bleat so, each to each. Oh-h-h-h, Prufrock! Eh?

Donald's dome: drench'd -- deep! -- in bleach? (Forelock...forelock!) Clorox circumscribes his speech.* Oh-h-h-h, forelock! Eh? 

Compromise? Not Mitch's niche. (Gridlock...gridlock!) Congress comes to halting screech! O-h-h-h, gridlock! Eh?

“Holmes conceit? No solo beech,”* (Sherlock...Sherlock!) Watson tweets, though Doc won't preach. O-h-h-h, Sherlock! Eh?
     * Cf Conan Doyle's "The Copper Beeches."

Bolton's keen to treaties breach.* (Warlock...warlock!) "John: just cool it," we beseech. O-h-h-h, warlock! Eh? 

Arms avail'd with barrel breech? (Flintlock...flintlock!) Background checks? That’s overreach.* O-h-h-h, flintlock! Eh?

If we fail to "Pote" impeach (hemlock...hemlock!), poison that embloaten'd creature!* O-h-h-h-h-h-h, hemlock...h'rra-a-ay!
     * Cf any article on fat tick removal. (Fat ticks are known carriers of Lyin' Disease, a lot of which is going around.)

"A is for Abe and his unfunded pension" The Gashlycrumb Seniors: A Short Sojourn At Archaedian Acres Retirement Village with a Nod to Edward Gorey

(B/w line illustrations prompted by those appearing in Gorey's "Gashlycrumb Tinies" are on the drawing board: a work in progress.) 

A is for Abe and his unfunded pension.
B is for Babs with severe hypertension.

C is for Carl, largely vegetative.
D is for Dotty. Her mem’ry? A sieve.

E is for Esther awaiting a heart.
F is for Fred of the flatulent fart.

G is for Gordon who suffers from gout.
H is for Helga. Her hair’s falling out.

I is for Ida. That itching’s come back.
J is for Johnny. His stools have turn'd black.

K is for Kurt with three holes in his colon.
L is for Lu. Her identity? Stolen.

M is for Maud with a face like a prune.
N is for Nick. Turned 100 in June.

O is for Oscar. The man is obese.
P is for Pearl. (Best to leave Pearl in peace.)

Q is for Queenie who has to be fed.
R is for Ralph: "Am I better off dead?"

S is for Sylvie. Can’t hear worth a damn.
T is for Tim. Suffers flashbacks from Nam.

U’s for Umberto. As yet there's no cure.
V is for Vince: old…but still immature.

W’s Wilfred whose hemorrhoids swell.
X is for Xan: Senor Singular Smell.

Y’s for Yolanda who'll pass come the Fall.
Z is for ZaSu. She’ll outlive us all.