The Apogeeraffe
The Apogeeraffe’s
too high-handed
-- by half!
“I be Wheat! You? But chaff!”
raps this rascal McNaff.
(Doth his rod
and his staff
comfort? Don’t
make me laugh.)
The Boffolo
The Boffolo
roam.
(We'd so hoped
they’d stay home:
they’ve a bed-sit
in Nome.)
Though enshrouded
in loam,
they eschew
brush and comb
and, like raths labeled ‘mome,’
they outgribe
when in Rome,
soiling Saint
Peter’s dome.
The Chargé d’Afferet
The Chargé d’Afferret:
though
24-caret,
if grievanced,
he’ll air it.
Returning the
claret,
he carps, “Don’t
you care it
is wine without
merit?
I simply shan’t bear it.
The wait staff can
share it.”
The Deepseal
The Deepseal’s psychosis
won’t yield to hypnosis.
Does nobody
notice
“His Gnosis” moans,
“No, Sis...”?
(I‘ve heard this
prognosis
perturbs his
proboscis.)
The Emperorang
The Emperorang
would abandon
our gang.
Why? The sunset
bell rang.
Why? The Fat
Lady sang.
He: “I’d pass
without pang.”
She: “Go out
with a bang!
And all out let it
hang!”
(I.e., don’t give a dang!)
The Firstplaice
The Firstplaice’s
firms
corner
angiosperms,
feed the world
– on his terms.
He gives
cereals perms,
calls legumes “mes les‘germs.’”
(On his house,
plagues of worms!)
The Genuineocerous
The Genuineocerous?
Petty
bourgeoise, sirrahs!
Calls his wife
“La-a-ahzarus.”
Once toured the
Bosporus
(in a currach no less)
with Pink, Ram
Das 'n’ us.
The Inside Traccoon
The Inside
Traccoon’s
booked a full
afternoon
in his club’s
billiard room,
whining, “Whar’s me toime flune?”
(Such a
pear-shaped maroon’s
earned a “trip
to the moon.”)
The Jupiterns
The Jupiterns’ kid
mails home pics
from Madrid.
She’ll not
Facebook her vid
like her kid
sisters did.
(If she keeps
info hid,
of this nit we’re
well rid.)
The Keyttiwake
The Keyttiwake’s wife
collects faux Duncan Phyfe.
With such stuff
her roost’s rife.
Keens Ms. K, “’Tis me life!”
(Her bids cut
like a knife:
hear her
holler, “Stop, ‘theif’!”)
The Lezruph-Tew Weevils
The Lezruph-Tew
Weevils
cavort just
like Knievels.
Friends call
‘em “Les Gleefuls.”
Of chutzpah
they’ve treefuls.
(Come Spring,
we’ll see seafuls.
My wife deems
‘em “deevils.”)
The Magnacum Louse
The Magnacum
Louse –
scoundrel,
bounder and souse --
craves a “less
mature” spouse.
He intends to
trade “vows”
with his frau’s blousy house-
maid, Ms.
Scarlett O’Strauss.
The Notbadger
The Notbadger’s
mater’s
an ex-corp’rate
raider
aka Dot Vader.
To cash out,
they paid her,
big bucks. (We
all hate her –
though most
would still date her.)
The Optimuskrat
The Optimuskrat
named his tie
“Nick Cravat.”
This guy’s,
likewise, “like that”
with Burt
Lancaster’s hat.
When he’s
asked, “Where’s it at?”
he replies, “Laundromat!”
The Parve Gnu
The Parve Gnu
summers
in haunts home
to Hummers.
She’ll brawl
with all comers.
She castigates
plumbers,
machinists and
mummers:
“My heart’s too
hard? Bummers!”
The Qualiteal
The Qualiteal’s
valet –
who co-owns a
chalet
in northeastern
Calais
with Megan
Mullally –
moonlights at
the ballet
far out in the
Valley
to help the
Halal La-
dies Aid. (Quite
a pal, eh?)
The Reagle
The Reagle’s arranged
for her sex to
be changed.
Cracks her
husband, “Deranged?
Nah! Just
faintly ‘unhainged,’
though her
scalp’s grown so manged
that we’ve now
grown estranged.”
The Staytodee Hart
The Staytodee
Hart
endows prie-dieux at Chartres,
twelve thought
objects of art
till the things
fell apart.
(The tight-fisted
ol’ fart,
if he’s so
frickin’ smart,
should have
bought ala carte
at the
Merchandise Mart.)
The Toppadee Lion
The Toppadee
Lion
stalked Conan
O’Brien.
The pair met
while high on
some ‘shrooms neo-Mayan.
I’ve ne’er seen
such cryin.’
(Would you care to buy in?)
The Ubear
Ubear chairs
the board
at both Chrysler
and Ford –
gigs which garner
a hoard.
“Still,” sighs
Ubear, “I’m bored,”
(Since he died --
praise the Lord! --
rival share
prices soared.)
The VIPeacock
The VIPeacock
channels Theo
van Gogh.
“Getting laid’s
now a lock:
all the chicks
on our block
really dig it.
You grok?
You’ve not
tried it? Don’t knock!”
The Wowl
The Wowl is
away.
He’s been missing
since May.
Where? His
lawyers won’t say.
(Were he
kidnapped, who’d pay?
Do you know how
to pray?
You’re agnostic? Oy vey!)
The Xanadugong
The Xanadugong
claims he’s
“done nothin’ wrong.”
Nowt illicit…as long
as one
discounts the bong,
and the trips
to Hong Kong
with his steno,
Ms. Wong
(of the silver
sarong?):
he was seen…in her thong!
He’ll be gone
before long.
(Same ol’ dance.
Same sad song.)
The Yakohinoor
Yakohinoor sleeps.
Christians give
him the creeps
(“Feed me,
lambs! Feed me, sheeps!”)
As he sows, so
he reaps.
Karma plays him...for keeps.
(Each who reads
of him weeps.)
The Zebravado
Zebravado (the lout!)
feels he’s fin’lly found out
what it’s really about:
“…baksheesh,
shaggin’ ’n’ clout,
plus some hooch
fer me mout’
durin’
stretches o’ drought…”
Listen closely!
No doubt
you can yet
hear him shout,
as his doomed
soul heads sout’
on its Abaddon
route:
“Damm me! All this, for nowt…?”
(Damn him! All
this for nowt.)
