Three Pseudo-Exquisite-Corpse Limericks

A    A    B
A    A    B
C    C
C    C
(A)  A    B

There’s this guy, do or die, Bernie Sanders.
Pumpkin pie, ham on rye, Peter panders.
Merwyn Peake, so to speak.
Wednesday week, hide-‘n’-seek.
Please stand by, eye for eye, Lunar Landers.

Lives this man, cheek of tan, Don DeLillo.
Spic ‘n’ Span, Ku Klux Klan, cigarillo.
Come to grief, twelve-mile reef.
Are you “deef”? Where’s the beef?
Or (to pan the Qur’an: “Armadillo!”

‘Tis this bloke, country folk, Raul Julia.
Pigs-in-poke, Roanoke. (Would I fool ya?)
“Over There,” share ‘n’ share.
Truth or dare, braid the hair.
Take a toke, have a soak. Hallelujah!

11 Dates in 12 Days or How I Kept Xmas (Images with Captions)

   D'Rumer S. Truman

Piper Speighpin

  Lourdes Leigh-Pinn

Lady Stanzing

Mae d'Zamilkin

   The Swanzas Women

       

     Geisha Layne

Golde Wrinx

     Callie ("Inga") Bertz

Fran Chentz

    "Tooter" Tull-Duffs 

(Anna Paar 'n' Gina Paertrie stood me up.)

An' A Thought Or Two Or Three (Or Four Or Five) Or Six In 30 Letters

"So: I bet Theo that one rotten s.o.b. quit." -- Lameth 
"I, robot, hatest thee not, quiet Boston." -- The Mal
"Quite the hot boots 'n' beetroots, Tina!" -- Thelma
"That sot bit the best onion? Too queer." -- L. Malte 
"'Quotient' beats 'otient,' Seth. Both root."  -- H. Metal 
"To be, or not to be, that is the question." -- Hamlet

Equivocal 'Barb's

‘Barb’s the word! Equivocal. E.g., here's three plus three.  
One’s Bobbie and the Riders of his (Benson's) B-Bar-B. 
Two’s Zanzibar, between the Wami delta and the sea.  
Inhuman "Butcher" Barbie’s three. (Klaus? No one's cup of tea.)  
Valeria Lukyanova’s four: a human Barbie, she.  
Five’s Donald! Donald tweets his barbs. (Don shuns all repartee.)  
Six? A rabbi goes into a bar because he needs to pee.  
See? Some words are equivocal. (Or do you disagree?)  

Other Goose

Miff'd, Miss Muffet quit her tuffet,
stashing her curds and whey.
Said she to the spider who sat down beside her,
"Ya'll git yer own whey! F**kin' A!" 

Ding, dong, bell.
Pussy's in the well.
Who put her in?
I did? Bloody Hell!

Mary had a little lamb.
Like snowdrift was its fleece.
And everywhere that Mary went
the lamb went. Jeez Louise!

Baa-baa, Black Sheep:
have you any wool?
Not a single bagful? 
What a load o' bull!

Three blind mice!
See how they run!
They all ran after the farmer's wife...
Hey! Are we freakin' done? 

Crambo on "-etti" in Sev'ral Stanzetti

Who except Spenser’d dispense Amoretti?
Why has Gastoldi not sold more balletti?
Who’d buy? Veronica? Jughead? (Not Betty.)
Still, ready or not, here I come.

How many cascades of chill’d cappelletti,

half-baked by Frank Drake and Carl Sagan of CETI,
got hurl’d by Francesca di Foix’s Donizetti?
(You bled? Where’s the clot on your thumb?)

Why did young Esther, whose nickname is ‘Etty,’

begin to befriend Renee Jeanne Falconetti?
Hey! Was it because of her sub-standard Freddy?
Don’t fret: she could not hear the drum.

Where might a sculptor – let’s say, Giacometti –

constructing a bust of Maria Goretti,
rough-hew Mrs. Wainthropp, that slue foot sleuth Hetty?
Our shed Giaco’d not use...the bum!

How do Italian boys’ words – like ‘indetti’ –

(some few misconstrue ‘em as ‘drench’d in confetti’)
wind up meaning “dinghys you’ll find near the jetty”?
(‘Ka-ret-i’? ‘Ka-rat-I’? Both dumb.)

Who switch’d initials? Did Lester (call’d ‘Ketty’)?

Or was it perhaps Woody’s kid sister Letty?
Each ‘K’ is ambiguous. (‘L’s are already.)
(Go steady…but not wid’ me mum.)

Who unstrings harps with a whetted machete?

(Gone: proslambanomenos, mese and nete.)
Demolishes “Nola” and “No, No, Nanette,” he.
Fast Eddie! Him! (Not me, in sum.)

How did Ted Hughes, with his used Olivetti.

misspell the word ‘pretty’ by spelling it ‘petty’?
My thought? He’s exhausted his ‘R’s, has our Teddy.
(Ted’s dead: he got shot in a scrum.)

Who’ll perform bass in The Tuba Quartet? He

who does is (or was) he who read the libretti.
The man who both can must needs prove rough and ready.
(No bed! Just a cot. He’ll succumb.)

What’s the expected next keyword? ‘Spaghetti’?
Italian musicians anticipate ‘stretti.’
(Most feel ‘f**k and c**k-s**k are wa-a-a-ay too “Tourette-y”
and set free the rotters and scum.)

Who’s Moses’s step-mother’s bro? Uncle Seti?

His offspring in Venice propel Vaporetti.
The water by volume displaced stirs an eddy.
And, ready or not, here they come.

Which monk had spare spunk to pen Vision of Wetti?

(No word so absurd there as ‘xebec’ or ‘xetti’ –
nor mention, of course, of exotic Arletty,
though, ready or not, here she comes.)

And, lest we forget: the abom’nable yeti,

who savors his ziti, pronouncing it ‘zeti,’
and, like me, a fan of the odd alphabet, he.
And, ready or not…
But I’m done.

Donald Digs Dictatoheads

I’m “Oh My God!” 
for you, Assad, 
though Adolf’s still my boy.
“Il Duch” (Benito)? 
Neato! 
Cats call’d Castro never cloy.
(Ceausescu?
Him I’d rescue. See?
My minions I’d deploy.)

I dig Duterte’s 
dastardlys
and Erdogan’s eclat.
Francisco faded 
wa-a-a-a-ay to soon. 
I loved Gaddafi’s hat.
(I’m into hats: 
my hair’s a hat.) 
Hussein’s hat’s where it’s at.

I’m into Idi. 
such a sweetie! 
Uncle Joe, as well.
The Jongs (-il, -un) 
and Kraprayoon: 
those boyos bang my bell.
Hey, Leonid! 
(I miss ya, kid – 
more since your big wall fell.)

My man Mugabe! 
(Hey, there, Bobby: 
keep Zimbabwe swingy!)
My pal Nikita’s 
senoritas 
let you grab their thingy!
The two Okellos? 
Lovely fellows.
Pol Pot? Kinda clingy.

Nguyen Ai Quoc? 
Hey, Doc: you rock! 
Say! Have you met Raul?
Sese Seko’s 
on the take? Oh, 
well: he’s no one’s fool.
Tafari? Ass! (Be-
came Selassie.) 
That man’s born to rule.

The Urbans, Popes?
You’re not the dopes 
some make you out to be.

Vargas? Win? 
Good friends you’ve been –
like mother’s milk to me.
Nor can I say 
too much today
about my buddy Xi.

Yo! Yayah Kahn! 
Yeah, you’re “me mon.”  
If you can’t do it, who?

And Mao Zedong? 
No, folks aren’t wrong: 
I cherish chairmen, too.
Hey! I’ll outdo ‘em all – 
each bloody one – 
before I’m through! 

Only Connected ala "Dry Bones" -- & Well Within My Comfort Zones

My arroz pone's connected to my...butter’d scone; 
my butter’d scone's connected to my...Cotes du Rhone; 
my Cotes-du-Rhone's connected to my...drop zone; 
my drop zone's connected to my...Eten phone; 
my Eten phone's connected to my...fretful groan; 
my fretful groan's connected to my..."grow-your-own!"; 
my "grow-your-own"'s connected to my..."Home Alone"; 
my "Home Alone"'s connected to my...intel (blown); 
my intel’s connected to my...Jonas Cohn; 
my Jonas Cohn's connected to my...Khmer-Mon;
my Khmer-Mon's connected to my...loathsome crone; 
my loathsome crone's connected to my...men's room throne; 
my men's room throne's connected to my...nose cone; 
my nose cone's connected to my...oat (wild, sown); 
my oat (wild, sown)'s connected to my...posture (prone); 
my posture (prone)'s connected to my...Quicken Loan; 
my Quicken Loan's connected to my...robot drone; 
my robot drone's connected to my..."Saint Joan"; 
my "Saint Joan"'s connected to my...Torrid Zone; 
my Torrid Zone's connected to my...undertone; 
my undertone's connected to my...varnish roan; 
my varnish roan's connected to my...Wingy Manone; 
my Wingy is connected to my...xylophone; 
my xylophone's connected to my...yawning drone; 
my yawning drone's connected to my...zits (not shown)…

NOW I hear the word of the Lord!   

Complexity

All its cockles and mussels and oysters and clams,
all its marmalades, lemon curds, jellies and jams,
all its levees and breakwaters, ditches and dams...
crowd the cosmos and leave it complex.

With its Myanmars and Monacos, Spains and Siams,
with its buggies and carriages, strollers and prams,
with its swearings and oaths, with its curses and "Damn!"s...
it's profound in a round of respects.

All its ounces and carats, its grains and its grams,
all its misters and missuses, sirs and mesdames,
all its Maxims and Morties, its Sams and its Shazams…
beg the Q&A, "What in heck’s nex'?"

With its aunties and uncles, its grampas and grams,
with its briskets and pot roasts, its veal joints and hams,
with its puppies and ponies and kittens and lambs...
how's it manage to salvage such wrecks?

All its bunkos and frauds, all its shakedowns and scams, 
all its streetcars and gondolas, trolleys and trams, 
all its "Cheerio!"s, "Ciao!"s, "So long, Sammy!"s and "Scram!"s...
tend to lead one to Windex one's specs.

With its pop quizzes, mideterms and final exams,
with its tubers and 'taters, its spuds and its yams, 
with its beanies and bonnets, its top hats and tams...
what comes next? To apostatize sex? 

All its Tinas and Trishas, its Pollys and Pams, 
all its 'were's and 'once was'es, its 'is'es and 'am's, 
all its "Splooge!"s and "Fwap!"s, its "Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am!"s...
leave it curved – both concave and convex! 

With its cookies and crackers, its melbas and grahams,
with its lintels and lock rails, its joists and its jambs,  
with its potted meats, jerkys, Tofurkys and Spams...
'tis enough to kerfuff’ Malcolm X!

Climate Change Language Exercise: Another Adventure in Linguature

The rain, ‘tis plain,
runs gainly down our lane…
though stains the drain.
The snow, we know,
must blow: drifts drift and grow.
Where're we to go?

This wind, my “frind,”

shall “sind me ‘roun’ de bind.”
My ears? They’re pinn’d.
This ice? Not nice.
(Posh Spice has stumbl’d...twice! 
What’s your advice?)

This sleet’s “fer sheet.”

My seat has lost all heat…
can’t feel my feet.
This mud? God’s blood!
We trudge through muck and crud:
a freakin’ flood!

The fog’s turn’d smog.

All soggy’s grown each tog.
We’re not agog.
This hail won’t fail
our mailman to derail.
Just one more nail…

This dust be cuss’d!

Nonpluss’d, we’re truss’d in crust.
Must we adjust?
The warming’s uncharming,
disarming. More: alarming!
Harms the farming.

Tsunami? Miami’s

still balmy, though less palmy.
Call my Mommie!
Scirocco? Morocco and Bang-
kok go on the block. (So,
where’s Iraq go?)

The fires require

attire heat-treated prior –
or you’ll perspire.
This smoke’s no joke:
Al Roker’s had a stroke.
Ya toke, ya croak!

Armageddon?

We’ve made our beddin’…

-Cide by -Cide or Murders He Wrote

Moi? Contemplate self-murder? Nah! I’m fa-a-a-a-a too "nah"cissistic.
To kill another, on the other hand? That's fatalistic.

While often bored with board games (though Parcheesi I’ve not tried),

I murder’d Colonel Mustard -- and was tried for Clueicide.

Insisting I’d not slit my wrists, committing suicide,

I massacred the March King -- and was tried for Sousacide.

Though I, like you, revere the gnu (I poachers can’t abide),

still, wildebeests I’ve wasted -- and been tried for gnuicide. 

*  *  *  *  *

While claiming I’d not slay the wife – how could I harm my bride? --
I poison’d her pastrami -- and was tried for shrewicide.

While noting I’d no Kigmie kill (“So cute! So cute!” I’d cried),

I snuff'd a pair and, then and there, was tried for shmooicide.

A female Doctor? (Some have mock'd her maiden TARDIS ride.)
But, no: not me! I'll not, you see, be tried for Whoicide. 

While mouthing, “Me? Dispatch a flea? Such cavil hurts my pride,”

I crucified a zooful -- and was tried for zooicide.

*  *  *  *  *

Berating gender bias, I felt uber-qualified

to decapitate Capote -- and get tried for Truicide.

While cleaning out the septic tank, well-arm'd with fungicide,

I brain’d each bac I bared there -- and was tried for sewercide.

Insisting, “I’m pro-Indian…” (whatever that implied),

I scalp’d Black Elk and Red Cloud -- and was tried for Siouxicide.*
     * N.B.: I was not tried for croaking Crow King. 

Moi? Contemplate self-murder? Nah! I’m still too "nah"cissistic.

To shoot or smother some poor other? That's (I've learn'd) linguistic.