"The Weather Lady's waving..." Climate Changes; or, Tilaka Toccata: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

The Weather Lady’s wavings indi-
cate, in missionary Hindi,
how conditions, waxing windy,
warn each Buddha: “Mind your bindi!
You have been consign'd your bindi: 
Be inclined to bind your bindi --
lest you fail to find your bindi!
(What's that...there...behind...? Your bindi!") 

"Sing me stories of O..." Arcanagrammatic Invocation to the Muse of Poetry -- on P O E T R Y: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

(Regular readers have probably already noted that what follows is not a pure arcanagram. This is because, although the last word of each line is spelt using only the letters P O E T R Y, the last line does not end in the word ‘poetry,’ which it should were this a strict arcanagram.)

Sing me stories of O. Mingle Gorey with Poe.
Let a hollow horse (oy!) tell me tales set in Troy.
Chants of Klansmen and rope, hymns of faith and lost ‘ope.
Sell me sagas of yore, epics empt’ing each pore.

Tales of climbing High Tor, “49”ing gold ore.
Fonts of poetry ope: sev’ral stanzas, a trope.
In a shout-out re ‘toy,’ shout ‘bout Siegfried re Roy.
Serve up catfishes’ roe. Swerve from treetop to toe.

Sing me Sidon and Tyre. Fan that funeral pyre.
Rap of San Luis Rey: do a deuce; do a trey.
Who’ll object if you pry? You’ll not know till you try.
Drink deep draughts. Pour your pote. (I’ll hear nothing by rote.)

Say not ‘sed,’ only ‘et.’ (Be I bed-raed? Not yet.)
Never ‘con-,’ always ‘pro-,’ nor of nothing de trop.
Tack your tales hard to port, each poetical ort.
On my artiness prey: it’s well known you’re o’tre.

Should your rap need a rep, who will volunteer? Yep!
Sing ye! Rage till ye rot! Po’ms are better than pot.
Something dolorous? Nope: songs to sing skipping rope 
sung like Gorey and Poe. (Skip those stories of O.)

"Pins and needles..." Calendar Caliente; or, Chili Doggerel Featuring an ABAB BCBC Rhyme Scheme in Every Two-part Octave: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

Pins and needles! Eyes and hooks!
Chill January's hues? Slick slates,
a grey display in sleet. She looks
a climate prime for skis and skates.

One chili pepper celebrates

by donning earmuffs, scarf and gloves
to undertake not guff he hates
but thin-ice skating -- stuff he loves.

Pins and needles! Hooks and eyes!
Fleet February's twenty eight, 
in falling three days shy, supplies
less time to venerate a mate.

One chili pepper's running late

delivering his valentine.
He must (and soon!) accelerate:
"Get goin'!" That's his bottom line.

Hooks and eyes and nuts and bolts!
Mid-March's Ides can’t hide Spring's flowers.
Lads towards love cavort like colts,
big blossoms copped from blooming bowers.

Thefts like these take sev'ral hours,

maybe less. (No more than two.) 
One chili's savoir faire ne'er sours:
just hear him blurt, "These buds? For you!"

Hooks and eyes and bolts and nuts!
Escape an April's Easter eggs?
Nope! Basket filled, one chili struts,
sashaying on his own two pegs.

"May I make mucho more?" he begs. 

"The ankle biters love 'em so,
nor's FDA releasing regs
suppressing eggs. Say I, ‘Let's go!’"

Bolts and nuts and forks and spoons! 
Which gifting day in May's the worst?
De Mayo Cinco France impugns;
preferring May Day -- that's the first.

"The best," rants William Randolph Hearst, 

"is World Press Freedom Day -- the third." 
(One chili, Mother's gifts dispersed,
orates. He prates, "They're all absurd!")

Bolts and nuts and spoons and forks!

In June, platoons of grads and dads
(though tagged by family dweebs and dorks) 
get gifts: designer ties, all plaids.

One chili'd rather troll for shads.

With six-packs in his tackle box,
he trawls among the lily pads.
(This catch roes cache with proto-lox.) 

Spoons and forks and Spocks and Kirks!
Jejune July's supremacists
malign, ‘midst flags and fireworks,
more recent settlers in their midsts.

One chili simply coexists.

Like Pete and Woody belts out he
(in dissing these recidivists),
"...this land was made for you 'n' mee-e-e-e!"

Spoons and forks and Kirks and Spocks!

The puns of August beam their rays
on circus clowns in pleated frocks
who juggle balls come circus days.

But do not think these chilis gays --

their frocks and fright wigs notwithstanding:
also, they play cabarets:
there, juggling stuff is most demanding.

Kirks and Spocks and things and wings!
September signals: “Back to school!”
One chili in his backpack brings
an Apple XR iPhone. (Cool!)

But there be jealous chilis who’ll
report this to his home-room teacher.
She’ll impound that phone (the ghoul!).
'Tis worse than pointless to beseech her.

Kirks and Spocks and wings and things!
Is this a chili or a spook?
October Hallow'd weenies brings,
but watch out! Milk Duds make you puke.
This chili lost his plum peruke
(he'd plann'd to trick-or-treat as Dame
E. Everage). 'Twas just a fluke,
his hairpiece loss. No one's to blame.

Wings and things and needles and pins!

Wings and things and pins and needles!

"The world, too much with us..." What the World Really Needs; or, Seuss Resusitated: A Nonsense Alphabet in Meter & Rhyme

The world, too much with us, propels toward the gravel –
oe’r-heated, o'er-greeded and, once again, flat.
What’s needed to save us? A knight? Or a knave?
No, what’s actu’lly needed’s a cat in a hat.

No afghans in caftans. No bluejays in PJs.

No cock in a frock. No cravat-adorned rat.
No doe dans chapeau. No dugongs in sarongs.
Not a ewe in J. Crew. Just a cat in a hat.

For a super-sized storm, formed as oceans wax warm,

can’t be calmed by some nattily jacketed sprat.
Nor is strife in Beirut rooted out by some coot
In a coat multi-colored. Think “cat in a hat.”

Not a flea in a T. No gazelle in Chanel.

Not a wig-wearin’ heron in Karan – not that.
Not wild Irish setters in styled Irish sweaters.
Not jays in berets. Just a cat in a hat.

For to regulate guns run by Nazis and Huns

can’t get done by some outerwear-outfitted gnat.
Nor can car-coated larks prevent racist remarks.
That can only be done by a cat in a hat.

Not some coy kangaroos wearing sensible shoes.

Not a lamb in a tam – there’s just no call for that.
Not some white marmosets in too-tight farmerettes.
Not some newts wearing boots. Just a cat in a hat.

For the plight of the poor won’t be given “what for’

by some eels in high heels or some bonneted bats.
Nor can views fundamental be rendered more gentle
by foxes in socks. Just by top-hatted cats.

No giraffe-like okapis in Spanish serapes.

No pythons in nylons: those aren’t where it’s at.
Not a quail in chain mail nor some rabbits in sabots.
No shad clad in plaid. Just a cat in a hat.

For while healthcare for all seems an order too tall

for a fruit fly in drip-dry supplied by his frat
or a lemur-like lynx draped in ermines and minks,
it’s as easy as pie for a cat in a hat.

Neither turtles in girdles, ukaris in saris

nor voles draped in stoles – these would just leave us flat.
Not a whale in a veil nor a Harris-tweed xerus.
No yak in a mac. Just a cat in a hat.

For no pederast priest can be curbed by a beast

in a fleece that’s pre-creased – after all: tit for tat.
Nor are worm cans debugged by some slugs rya-rugged.
All’s best left, in the end, to a cat in a hat.

(Might a gussied-up zorse try to save us? Of course.

But that zorse and his ilk lack the needed “eclat.”
“Neither goose, mouse nor moose is requir'd,” observes Seuss.
“All we actu’lly need is a cat in a hat.”)

Arcanagram on M A C H I N E: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

(The arcanagram, a verse form of the author’s own invention, is a poetic elaboration on a single word, the spring word, which functions as a partial, near- or quasi anagram in that numbers of smaller words are extracted from it using its letters These so-called seed words are then used as end rhymes in an extended composition, the final word of which is the spring word. The metric scheme of this arcanagram mimics, in part, that of Carroll’s “The Hunting of the Snark”.)

Though he claimed, “I’m descended from Ham,”

as he conquered and saw and then came,
he’s descended from Eve, 
as I am, I believe.
Still, I fear I’ve forgotten his name.

Next, he chanted, “I’m Cuban, like Che.
And you’re right: I’m a knight who says “Ni.”
(I suspect the guy’s gay, 

or is ex-CIA

on a time out-- or is it just me?)

When he crowed, “I’m a beau o' yer ma’s.

We two met when we tour’d Viet Nam,”
contradict him did Ma – 

with her vim and her “Nah!

Come in, lad, from the cold. Remain calm.”

Why he whispered, “Mom christen'd me ‘Chen’

while supportin' my chin in her han’”
remains vague – much like Zen – 

for, in fact, he’s a hen

someone (you?) chose to re-baptize ‘Chan.’

Then he claimed, “I’m a son o' that Eichman

folks pretended descended from Cain."
(That his father was Eichman, 

that rabid Third Reich man,

was roundly rebuked, in the main.)

Next he feign'd, “Dare I finger the hem

of the Buddha, the Christ or such men?”
Nope. Their hems – though pro-tem – 

are as long as an em,

while his finger’s as short as an en.

Then he jaw'd, “What’s my job? Feedin' mice.

Without me, mice go hungry,” quoth he.
“And, till you – 'tain't no vice – 

begin treatin' ‘em nice,

you shall never be mein bon ami.”

He supplies ‘em with cookies and chai,

treats they access by ringing a chime.
When you spot ‘em pass by, 

don’t neglect to say ‘Hi!’

(If they ask, “Who’s your daddy?” say I’m.)”

“Anti-rodents be no friends o' mine.”

(He said that as he patted his chin.)
“You’re like Seven-of-Nine, 

or that ‘-stein’ known as ‘Ein-.‘

Or Mao’s kin-‘neath-the-skin, Ho Chi Minh.”

"Is your surname initialed with ‘ai’ch,'

as is ‘Hortense,’ the name of my niece?
Or ‘Hludowic the Vane, 

who’s called ‘Louis’ in Maine?"

I enjoined: "Or the Butcher of Nice’?"

"Nope, it starts, as does ‘ass,’ with an ‘A,’”

he replied, whereupon I honked, "Ha!"
“That's entir'ly OK,” 

he returned. “Your ‘Ha!,' eh?

Though I so-o-o-o wish you’d answered with ‘ah-h-h…’”

Then he sung me a solfege: “…re-mi…”

“Why?” I asked. Answered he: “’Cuz I can.
I’m a ‘-man’ o' that brand 

known as ‘he-‘ 'cross this land.

I am the one-man band,” he said. An’...

...out he drew from his shirtsleeve an ace.
(‘Twas of spades: I’d bid sev’ral at NIMH.*)
Then he grinned as he took 

up his mace with grim look

and trisected the card. (Ain't that him!?)

     * Pronounced ‘nim,’ as you might well anticipate.

Then he hiccough'd three times – each a mean ‘hic!’ –

and remark'd, “Though I loathe bakin' miche
(such a pain* turns me wan 

an' anemic en fin),

it is still my patisseri’l niche."

     * French for ‘bread’ and pronounced ‘pan.’

Lastly, grabbing a Coke with no ice,

he, with mostly maniacal mien --
yes, with mien mostly manic, 

in panic began: “Ich

bin ein seifenblase…” 
(ronamtische strasse)
i.e., I’m your bubble machine!”

"No rarer breed..." The (Very Brief) Ballade of J. ("Ken") Heedit: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

No rarer breed – 
that’s guaranteed! – 
than Javier K. 
(“Ken”) Heeditt.
Though slim to slight 
of appetite, 
"Ken" never fails 
to feed it.
Some grade him greedy, 
noshlekh-needy. 
Both? "Ken" will 
concede it.
Morn, night and noon, 
you'll hear "Ken" croon: 
“I’ll have my cake... 
and eat it!”

"U love Unicorns..." His Base: A Nonsense in Meter & Rhyme

U love Unicorns (James Thurber’s “mythical beasts”).
U love Ukes (gay objets from the Twenties).
U inveigh, ev’ry day, “USA! USA!”
U are Ugly...and non compos mentes.

"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.)