"I call'd my aunt..." Name Calling; or, Deathbed Confession: An Abecedarial Nonsense in Meters & Rhymes

I call'd my aunt Aunt Tipodees. So solitary, she.
I call'd my brother Brother ‘Hood. Small-town, small-time, small 't.'
I call'd my cat Cat Astrophe. She ran amok when wet.
I call'd my dog Dog Matic. Such a narrow-minded pet!
I call'd my eyes Eyes Sosceles. Both lids show'd sim'lar droops.
I call'd my face Face Etious, fawning over nincompoops.
I call'd my grandma Grandma Laise. The darling hag lay sick.
I call'd my horse Horse Radish for that nag still pack'd a kick.
I call'd my ID I De Clare. I used it paying bills.
I call'd my jacket Jack Et Jill. I wore it climbing hills.
I call'd my ketchup Ketch A Plane. It perk'd up airline chips.
I call'd my legs Leg Humes. They look'd like runner beans…with hips.
I call'd my mom Mom Entum. She outran me. Fancy that!
I call'd my nose NoSeUm and pretended it weren't fat.
I call'd my otter Otter Reno, thinking he compos'd.*
I call'd my parrot Parrot Dice: so Eve-like (I suppos'd).
                   * As does Italian composer Ottorino Respighi.
I call'd my quiff Quiff Enedine. I felt addicted to it.
I call'd my room Room Maki: I ate sushi there. (You knew it?) 
I call'd my sister Sistern. Sis was fashion'd like a tank. 
I call'd my toes Toes Stadas. (I have Cantinflas to thank.)
I call'd my uncle Uncle Lected...or, Outstanding Bill.
I call'd my verses Verses Wade: I'll write of "Roe" until...
I call'd my weekend Weekend Do It! Optimistic me!
I call'd my xs Xs Stench. How blind can one guy be?
I call'd my youth Youth Ought So. I imagined it would last. 
I call'd my zs Zs And Desist! Then wept...and slept...and pass'd.

"Why does the moron..." Eight Moron Jokes Rex Tillerson May or May Not Have Told Perhaps Hold Key to Donald Trump's Psyche

(October marks the one-year anniversary of the revelation that 
a US Secretary of State referred to a US president as "a moron.")

Why does the moron prove a dreadful head of state?

Because when but a tot the toddler’s not allowed a mate.

Why does the moron daily briefings fail to study?

Because he’s not a clever lad, nor’s never had a buddy.

Why does the moron white supremacy defend?

Because when yet a child he’s reconciled to have no friend.

Why does the moron a misogynist become?

Because when young he never hung with any female chum.

Why does the moron fail to discipline his ego?

Because alone he’s stayed: he’s never played with an amigo.

Why does the moron bully, bluster, boast and bellow?

Because when yet a youth he’d grown uncouth without a fellow.

Why does the moron spread so “absolu” a “mal”?

Because forbidden to this kid were freres: he had no pal.

Why does the moron suffer all of the above?

Because “Go for the gold!” when young he’s told. “Ignore the love!”

"Ax, the Asking Buddha..." A Friends of the Laughing Buddha Alphabet of Buddhas Presented as a Connect the Dots Puzzle Cum Coloring Book: More Nonsense in Meters & Rhymes

  

You may have heard tales of Pu-Tai the Laughing Buddha, or seen him, with his prayer beads in his hand or hung 'round his neck and his potbelly begging to be rubbed, in Asian restaurant windows or display cases in curio shops. But hidden – until now – has been a whole array of Buddhas, each similarly named with an appropriate gerund after his characteristic attribute or eccentricity. The following lines of verse present a whole alphabet’s worth of these fellows, portrayed for you to complete, to color and to contemplate.

An alphabet 
of Buddhas, set
in systematic chain,
will errors quell.
(‘Twill dare, as well,
through Zen, to entertain.)
Ersatz it’s not.
Connect each dot!
What dharma you’ll obtain!

Ax, 
the Asking Buddha,
proposes queries three:
(1) “How d’ya do?”
(2) “Cool. An’ you?”
(3) “What in hell’s a ‘Sri’?”
(Non sequiturs, 
these, it occurs.
Feel free to:
 [ ] diss 
    [ ] agree.

Belsch, 
the Burping Buddha,
eructs “As Time Goes By”
accompanied
on treble reed
by me. Do not ask why.
(Paired, formerly,
with Kenny G,
whose honking’s less than fly.)

Catsch, 
the Coughing Buddha,
whose throat conceals a frog,
sounds so-o-o-o like Satch.
But here’s a catch:
he’s billed “The Velvet Smog.”
Still, “West End Blues”
he’ll not refuse
to scat as monologue.*

* Pace Louis Armstrong 
and Mel Torme

Duh, 
the Doping Buddha,
most limners limn as lean:
a shade, a ghost –
one overdosed
on metamphetimine.

Esch, 
the Etching Buddha,
who’s tan's a Van Dyke Brown,
declares, “My dear,
please wait right here:
I’ll bring the etchings down." 

* Pace James Thurber.

Flayl, 
the Frailing Buddha,
picks six-string licks galore.
Like mentor Seeger,
Flayl’s “de reeger”*
railing ‘gainst the war.
(Flayl’s new octet’s
The Buddhaettes.
None like ‘em heretofore.)

* Flayl’s pronunciation 
of ‘de rigueur’

Grimz, 
the Grinning Buddha,
apes Carroll’s Cheshire Cat.*
His jaw’s in view
‘cuz (sad but true)
his face won’t fade: ‘stoo fat!

* Pace Charles Dodgson.

Humph, 
the Huffing Buddha,
employs a gas-mask bong
to toke his Rhino.
(Like your wino,
Humph well knows it’s wrong.)

Imp,* 
the Itching Buddha,
hosts fleas like Drumpf boasts dough –
though lacks withal,
the Donald’s gall
and braggadocio.

* Short for ‘Impetigo’

Joque, 
the Joshing Buddha,
did stand-up in his youth;
a spell, as well,
on SNL.
(He killed at House of Ruth.)
But Hope he’s not,
though, ‘cuz he’s got
Gil Gottfried’s lack of couth.

Kvayl, 
the Kvetching Buddha:
Complaints, complaints, complaints!
But, after all,
one must recall:
bodh’sattvas make poor saints.
“No Mother T
be me,” warns he.
(No pretty pic he paints.)

Leth, 
the Lolling Buddha, 
looms large at Sarge’s Lounge.
Leth lacks all pep.
Well-earned's his rep
as junior "Señor Scrounge."

Mote's 
the Moulting Buddha.
Skin sloughing is his thing.
Moie sheds it while
he’s bowing viol
and humming “Moultin’ Swing.”*
(In lieu of that --
as tit for tat --
Christ scats, “Ring-ding-a-ding!”)

* Pace Bennie Moten.

Numm, 
the Noshing Buddha.
His mum’s a Polish Jew.
Says Matka, “Vell,
moj syn: sup well!
Nor nie neglect to chew.”

Oz? 
The Oozing Buddha.
From ears, from eyes, from nose,
from butt and lips
slick syrup drips.
Quick! Fetch a pail and hose!

Parr, 
the Putting Buddha,
is slow to break a sweat.
But once Parr does,
he’s sunk – because
his bogie’s worse when wet.

Quidd's
the Quarr’ling Buddha.
Quidd's quick to pick a fight.
Quidd can’t be told.
Quidd’s uncontrolled.
(Let's face it: Quidd’s for shite!)

Runz, 
the Rapping Buddha,
declaims no Saxon tongue.
(Shall geeks soon seek
to speak the Greek
from which Rap’s raps are wrung?)

Shoe, 
the Sleuthing Buddha,
inveighs dans chez Suchet.
“I may, someday,
Poirot portray…
if Pinter pens the play.”

Tuck? 
The Toddling Buddha.
On Tuck Chi opts to dote.
Is up Chi’s thumb?
O, yup! (In sum,
Tuck’s still – in Chi -- tres haut.)*

* Pace Chicago.

Upp’s 
the Umping Buddha.
Your state? Check, mate, his name!
How well you do
is subject to
the way Upp calls the game.

Vett, 
the Voting Buddha,
vents, “Vote dem varmints out!”
It’s understood
Vett’s motive’s good.
But Vett lacks ample clout.

Warn’s 
the Warring Buddha.
In genocides he’s starred.
(The view’s now voiced
that Warn be hoist
upon his own petard.)

Xin, 
the Xysting Buddha,
sits ‘sconced in his arcade.
Its rostrum spins,
so, for his sins,
Xin withers in the shade.

Yoh, 
the Yachting Buddha,
stands watch on Empress deck.
He sports a cap –
though, for his nap,
prefers a turtleneck.

Zone 
the Zzzzzzing Buddha’s
"gear fab" at grabbing Zs.
Those shades of his
permit this wiz
to “rest his eyes.” (Oh, ple-e-e-e-eze!)

So ends, good friends, this menu,
exhausting six and twenty --
each standard letter –
plus (what’s better)
proff’ring puns aplenty.

"The Apogeeraffe's too high-handed..." The Alpha Betes; or, Highfalutin Fauna: A Nonsense Alphabet in Meter & Rhyme

 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.) 

"Songs in C? Sung gleegully..." Keys in Which a Child Shouldl Sing & Keys in Which She Should Not: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

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

E-flat anthems tykes troll, too,
though some raise tantrums. (No...not you.) 

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

F-sharp melodies sung blue?
Best softly rendered in the loo.

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

B-flat ballads? Trite though true –
while sev’ral trigger déjà vu.

Airs in D? No sir! Not me!
(Some crooners in Kuwail’ll.)
Chants in E? De corps esprit!
But strains in A flat? Fatal!

"Each big below's a beaut'..." Why Giants Get The Girls; or, "He's So Cute!"

Each big below’s a beaut,’ 
a yahoo from his yout.’
Who’d figure femmes 
would fall for them?
(Shoo, Cupid, Shoo! 
Don’t shoot!)
Yet every one -- 
each waif, each nun -- 
enthuses, “Hon, 
you’re cute.”

Huge Hagrid’s too hirsute. 
His member’s big to boot,
which may explain 
why ladies deign 
to still maintain, 
“He’s cute.”

Tall Titans -- ’tis the trut’ -- 
boast mugs like Ugli fruit.
But Titanesses? 
My best guess is: 
they confess, “Is 
cute.”

Big Jule’s suits be zoot. 
He reeks of cheap cheroot.
Still, mobs of molls 
(think:Guys and Dolls) 
repeat like polls: 
“He’s cute.”

Goliath is a brute, 
a boor of poor repute.
Yet female teens 
who’re Philistines 
scream: “By all means, 
he’s cute.”

Paul Bunyan’s one galoot 
whose intellect’s minute.
Still, ev’ry squaw 
who’s Quebecois 
cries, “Ohmygaw! 
He cute!”

Gargantua...stute? 
He’d nowt outwit a newt.
Yet ladies say, 
writes Rabelais, 
“Fer sher, monsieur! 
Yer cute.”

Each Cyclops follows suit 
(my argument’s not moot):
young Grecian girls 
toss titian curls 
and blurt, “That churl’s 
so cute.”

Take Gorm the giant Jute 
and son of Harthacnut:
Adored by dames 
with Danish names. 
Linnea claims, 
“So cute.”

One very large Aleut, 
whose odor’s most acute,
remains "The L’hOmme” 
to chicks from Nome – 
he's “hepitome” 
of ‘cute.’

But Big Foot takes the loot. 
He thwarts man’s hot pursuit.
Whereas most chicks, 
from burgs or sticks, 
would be his “sweet 
patoot." 
Yep, ev’ry flooze, 
from Flo through Suze 
(each one who'd choose
to root…  
and they’re a crowd), 
repeats out loud, 

“So cute! So cute! 
So cute!”

"Baby Jesus! He agrees: His..." The Ballade of Baby Jesus: A Nonsense Alphabet

Baby Jesus! He agrees: His 
home-from-home’s now east Belize.

Baby Jesus leaves Cadiz’s
church in search of devotees. 

Baby Jesus! His esprit is
captured in a cornice frieze.

Baby Jesus guarantees his
folk don’t croak from heart disease.

Baby Jesus! Ill at ease: his
Word means ‘turd’ in Javanese.

Baby Jesus! On his knees he
sneezes -- just a little sneeze.

Baby Jesus’s “re, mi”s
enhance notated harmonies

in singing contests overseas.
(He lost, despite disciples’ pleas.)

Baby Jesus makes me queas-.
y: no denying He’s the reas-

on I’ve curtailed my drinking sprees.
(He’s got me steeping herbal teas.)

Baby Jesus! His unease, His
faults, His waltzes Viennese

have left Him with a dreadful wheeze.
Long gone are Baby’s “eXtacies.”

Baby Jesus, if you please:
I’ll grab me some much-needed Z-z-z-zs!