Should Potus Reap a Nobel Sweep...?

Some people – lots! – are saying I should get the Nobel.
(Not many people know this: it's from Sweden. Oh, well…
Obama won for doin' nothin'...him or Michelle.)

Some people tell me, “Sir, that Physics Prize should be yours.

Those time machines you've fashion'd help'd our milit’ry corps
to take foes' airports during revolution'ry wars.”

The Nobel Prize in Chemistry...? It's surely my due.

The “Freedom Gas” I export's proved a bigly beau coup.
Those “Molecules for Freedom” ought to garner me two.) 

The Nobel Prize for Lit’rature...? That crown’s in the bag!

I’ve always had the best words – though I’m not one to brag.
Look! Here’s one racist tweet I typed while wrapp’d in the flag.

The Nobel Prize for Medicine it’s high time I won.

New twitter threads on dodging STDs...? Nearly done.
My cure for bone spurs took some time, but now look: I've none!

The Prize for Economics people say I should get.

Will tariffs on our trading partners crush ‘em? You bet!
(There’s no one in the world knows more than me about debt.)

Hey, Sweden! If you're list'ning, just award me the lot.

Should you refuse, what better clues that Swedes aren't worth squat!
(I may decide to go to war with Sweden... Or not...)

Billfold Ballade

“What’s in your wallet?” asks Samuel L.
(‘Demands’ is more like: Sam's as huffy as hell.
He insists I acquire mega-augmented credit, 
then tells me he knows those from whom I must get it.) 

What’s in my wallet? I’ll clue you in, Jackson.

I’ll spit it out straight -- I’m no brother who backs in.

'Tain't minimum wages. 'Tain't lottery haul.

So: what’s in my wallet? 'Tain't nothin' at all.

Frag Rags Constrain'd With Codons and Without Clinamina

My tricot-knit-
ted lab coats sit
in stacks of six-
ty four --
crochet'd in 9
BC, define,
they do, how less
is more.

‘Tis time, Big Mac:
define exac-
tly what’s in back
of ‘pure.’
(Abomina-
ble cause results
in bad effect -- 
that's sure.)

Her songs she’s left

in standard clef -- 
G, F…more oft-
en C.
“Tonight,” she boasts,
“I’ll frighten ghosts,
if ghosts there real-
ly be.”

My pencil sketch-

es baksheesh fetch,
though ink's preferr’d
by many.
Sell hot pants? Not
New Delhi…? Jodh-
pur dealers won’t
vend any.)

“Is she a fake?”

they howl. “Si! J.
K. Rowling’s not
her name.”
‘Tain’t no mirage:
at home, she’s ‘Taj’;
klangfarbmontage 
her game.

Though Royal Dutch,

the common touch
is “air’d” by K
LM.
Each flight’s quite calm –
no “flying bomb.”
(I love to fly
with them.)

Try kosher Spam –

no pork, no ham.
Delish? You bet
your glans!
No ham! No pork!
Just grab yo' fork!
(It comes in one-
pound cans.)

Quranic scho-

lar 'Rani’s hol-
ler: “Stop! Q’ran’s in-
correct!
That ‘u’ you drop 
'Q' ruins. Stop! 
You can't 'u's lop
uncheck'd.

And have you heard
this Scrabble word:
‘suq’? (‘R’s in it? 
Hell, no!)
Still, rules there are.
One (best by far):
Stick, nerds, with words
unfaux.

The Duke of York’s

odd love for storks
makes clear: the dork’s
turn’d queer.
Still, storks in si-
tu voted three
to one to shun
the dear.

This plea’s for you,

VW
detailer. My
fixation?
A peacock-blue
VW
x-rated dec-
oration.

Nobody owns

sitars with drones.
Now, xylophones
are trendy.
Who knows what’s next!
Perhaps a sex-
y zither’s mode
vivendi.

Some jazz is Thai

(I can’t think why).
Zaire sports jazz
bands...nu?
And Paris has
its Hot Le Jazz.
(These rhymes? Pizzazz-
y, too.) 

Remember This Day? 12/12/2012 -- The Speaker & the Fiscal Cliff: an ABC

Get on with it, John: post-election activity.
Still...let's not spill o'er the fiscal acclivity.
Tether your tears. Void your ploys: they’re too cute.
Just spare us a fall from the fear'd fiscal butte.

Do not risk our dough. Being broke’s such a drag.

Do not cast us down from that damn’d fiscal crag.
Mr. Speaker: to tweak ‘er you’ve had since last June.
Look -- do! --dead ahead: it’s the dread fiscal dune.

A tax hike – is that all the government TARP meant?

Disgraceful! We face -- full! --the fiscal escarpment.
The President’s deal? Take it! No time for stalls.
Mr. B: steer us clear of those drear fiscal falls.

How dare you proclaim we’re the world’s greatest nation?

We’re poised to go over the fiscal gradation.
Won't Democrats dub you “Congressional Chump”
if you don’t walk us back from the harsh fiscal hump?

Tax billionaires? Buffet says that would be fine.

But first: inch us far from the fiscal incline.
Can’t caucus chums swallow the debt-ceiling pill?
Please: just keep us away from the fiscal Jocks Hill.

Have you not eyed the most recent Rasmussen poll?

Read! And weep! Then keep clear of the fear’d fiscal knoll.
Don’t make of this issue a partisan wedge.
Please talk us down – now! -- off that foul fiscal ledge.

Your gavel you’ll save if you’ll use your cabesa

and spare us a fall from the Great Fiscal Mesa.
True medicine, John, not financial placebo
will ease this disease, this acute fiscal Nebo.

Abandon us not. Neither pooh-pooh nor pimp us.

How dumb to go tumbling down fiscal Olympus.
You won’t heed our pleas? Must we others’ aid seek?
Oh, don’t let us go over that bleak fiscal peak…

…that peak which provides to perdition a launching pad.

Don’t let us suffer the fierce fiscal Quinderdad.
Dunce! Can’t you once just be “one of the guys”?
And refrain from this bane, this corrupt fiscal rise?

We're warning you, Johnny, this cliff’s no chimaera.

Don’t stall, lest we fall from the fiscal Sierra.
Maneuvering must be immediate…or
we might trip, and so flip o’er the tall fiscal tor.

You motion’d to Mitch, “Let’s give F.C. a whirl.”

Nossir! No one should urge the unsafe fiscal Ural.
Support some heights, sure: some might prove “muy bueno.”
But veto all vaults o’er the fiscal volcano.

We’re altophobes all. We’re afraid of the tall.

We’d not hit (much less fall from) that weird fiscal wall.
The Recession Bell’s rung. The Depression Bell’s ringin.’
Arrest our descent from the fiscal Xiao Hinggan.

You need to announce using mots full of moxie,

“No falls from the fiscal…” (don’t faint) “…Yagradagze.”
Your seeing us through this will earn you thanks…and a
wet kiss -- if we miss it: the fiscal Zaranda.

We’re fed up with hillocks, with hummocks and hills.

With tors and Zarandas we’re stuff'd to the gills.
We’ve had it to here, whether curb, slope or shelf.
If you’d risk fiscal cliffs, best to fall by yourself!

A Tragic Lack of Footwear & Other Disgraceful Constraints

It’s said the cobbler’s children have no shoes. That’s not the half of it.
It’s sad the cobbler’s children have no shoes. Upshot...? An alphabet.  

Arrestees’ angels...? No “Adieu”s.
Beer brewers’ babies boast no brews.
Commandos’ chickens cop no coups.
Directors’ dickenses...? No dues.

Extras’ enfants...? No “Et tu...?”s.
Flouters’ floor apes...? No “F. U.!”s
Gambians’ gremlins grab no gnus.
Hostess’s heirs...? No “How do!”s.

Iceman’s issue...? No igloos.
Jesters’ juveniles...? No jeuxs.
Keepers’ kids...? No kangaroos.
Lav attendants’ lambs...? No loos.

Milkmen’s moppets mint no “Moo-oo-oo!”s.
Nudges’ nippers nab no “Nu…?”s.
Ooglers’ offspring own no “Oo-oo-ooh!”s.
Pess’mists’ prog’ny pot no “Pooh!”s.

Quislings’ quizkids quench no Qs.
Rascals’ rug rats rate no ruse.
Sous chefs’ shavers stir no stews.
Touristiques’ toddlers...? No Toulouse.

Urges’ urchins...? No "Ubu"s.      
Voyeurs’ very young...? No views.
Wu Zaos’ womb fruit win no Wus.      
X-men’s xeroxes...? No xus.

Yes-men’s youngin’s...? No “Yes: you”s      
Zookeeps’ zebrafish...? No zoos.
Seems children lose, no matter whose,
and we're left here to sing the blues.

Rime: an Acrostic

Tump, chump, mugwump, frump, grump, garbage dump. 
Rump, glump, Kevin Crump, slump, strump, vacuum pump.
Ump, shump, speed bump, clump, crump, triple jump. 
Mump, klump, sump, hump, h-r-r-r-rump, lump, Andy Gump.
Plump, stump...(ta-tump, ta-tump, ta-tump, ta-trump, ta-trump, ta-trump…) 

"Sir Paul's fur balls..." Double Dutch

Sir Paul's fur balls, Saint Paul's crop!
Nepal, Naipaul, paintball…plop! 
Chez Paul, gay ball, RuPaul...? Fop. 
Topol, Bopal, Donn Paul's flop! 
Free-fall, flee pol Ron Paul's slop! 
Dope haul...? Don't bawl: phone call (cop)! 
Low ball, don pall: John Paul's Pop. 
Fast ball, last call, that’s all...stop!
How many drop steps can you do?
One-half, one, square root o' two... 

Narcissistic Personality Disorder or The Ill Eagle

My Russian dramatic fave...? Chekhov’s The Seagull.
Norwegians who’ll trigger tears...? Edward H. Grieg’ll.
A canine one learns to love...? Peke-…wait: a beagle!
Worst guilty obsession...? (Is Oprah illegal...?)
What weakens one’s will to win...? Chronic fatigue’ll
World’s fav’rite dead princess...? Di [sob] was so-o-o-o regal.
But what’s more distressing than Ben “Bugsy” Siegel...?
One lemon-pate head of state ve-e-e-e-e-e-ery ill eagle.

We Are Where We Live: Auda City

Observe the folks 
of Auda City,
labell’d 'tres outre.'
Heels...? Hair...? Drinks...? Spiked!
Who'd get all psych’d 
to them a visit pay? 
(Perhaps in June 
I'll change my tune, 
or May...
but not today.)

Five Hommages a Perec's "Wishes"

Introduction

Below you'll find a batch of short narratives leading to even shorter conclusions consisting of abecedarially constrained vocables. These texts have been inspired by a set of George Perec’s annual “Wishes” – the famous Oulipian’s passages of imaginative prose sent to his friends each new year. Bonne annee!

BAybEebIbOhboU 

During the now-infamous 1919 season of American baseball (infamous, admittedly, for reasons unrelated to the event here under discussion), a novice sports reporter for the Hearst-owned Boston newspaper The American found himself tasked with an unusual assignment: interviewing Red Sox players in pursuit of a story behind the rumor then making its way around the league – namely that there existed a demonstrable link, a direct numerical proportion, between the volume of beer, wine or other spirits of choice consumed by any given hitter prior to a game and that player’s batting average. Questioned on the subject, specifically regarding Sultan of Swat George Ruth, who was enjoying yet another stellar year at the time, the team’s third-base coach not only effectively quashed this theory but gave it a brief dose of the raspberries to boot, at least as far as that theory might pertain to the Bambino, answering…

“Babe…? He bibe eau. Boo!”

CAycEecIcOhcoU

"Hey, Mor! What's in the recipe for that delicious chicken loaf thingamie you always make for Maundy Thursday's dinner," asked NPR's Marketplace host of his Norwegian-born mother. 
     "That dish no good minout use special rooster bring in from China," cautioned the flour-dusted woman.
     "I'd sure love to prepare it myself this year, even though our economically challenged President's tariffs on imported fowl -- hens and roosters -- make dishes like yours virtually impossible. I guess it'll take a real stroke of luck to get my hands on such a bird." 
     "Right, my boy," answered the senior Mrs. Ryssdal, who, expanding on her response, reminded her son...

“Cake key, Kai...? Coq coup.”

DAydEedIdOhdoU 

Declan Donovan Dade, undistinguished husband and father but notorious in his neighborhood for being ever behind in the settlement of his pub tabs, passed away quietly in his sleep Sunday last. Several balladeers performing at Grogan's Castle Lounge, Dade's watering hole of choice, were swift to incorporate the miserly reputation of the pinchpenny Dade into their nightly ditties lionizing Lounge locals:

     "O Dade, he died, dough due.
      Dud dude Dade, he died, dough due.
      He slipp'd off the plate owing 7s.8.* O...

Dade…? He died, dough due.”

     * Seven shillings and eight pence, pronounced here "seven 'n' eight."

FAyfEefIfOhfoU

After decades as Hollywood's earliest Queen of Scream, Fay Wray tired of headlining horror films and began a search for "more demanding roles." Still, scripts casting her opposite a host of cinemonsters continued to pour in, all of which she roundly rejected. Then suddenly she reached an agreement with RKO to star in a proposed remake of King Kong -- an agreement which carried a significant codicil. In exchange for reprising her Anne Darrow character, she would be permitted additionally to star in a series of films portraying famous characters feigning madness. Such films would provide roles setting up the strong performances she now insisted on doing. As payment for her willingness to remake Kong (and, in passing, to save RKO from bankruptcy), the studio commissioned five screenplays providing the starring and costarring roles Ms. Wray demanded. Thus screenplays featuring fresh treatments of Hamlet, Randle McMurphy, Odysseus, Vincent Gigante and Nellie Bly (with Nellie, Wray was sure she smelt Oscar) were begun. As a Variety headline put it at the time…

"Fay fee...? Five faux fou."

GAygEegIgOhgUe

Introducing:

     The Dance Suite Quartet.

One guy glides 

     through a slow allemande.

The courante? Au courant 

     to a second. 

(Seen together, they're half 

     of the band.)

The third guy -- 

     a gal, as it happens --

shows a knack 

     for a slack sarabande.

The fourth, who a gay gigue 

     engages,

is a newborn. Still, 

     give him a hand! 

Or…

Gay gigue guy…? Go "Goo!"

The Twelve 'Chair-'s, Vol. III

The Umbrellas of 'Chair'bourg 
The 'Chair'leston, South 'Chair'olina 
The Carl 'Czhair'ny 
The Rosea'cha'r'n Joad
The 'Chair'ismatic 
The 'Chair'min (Please Don't Squeeze!)
The 'Czhair'coslovakia 
The 'Chair'cropper
The 'Chair'on Tate
The 'Chair'eshalom
The 'Chair'oot
The Ca'chair' in the Rye

(Images to come: a work in progress)