Note the Coat: An Accumulation For Queneau (from "Exercises in Style: The Poetic Supplement," Number 261)

Notice the manteau de Jacques.

Note the lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Notice the button (it's off sev'ral spaces) 

defacing the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Note the new button which, if nicely placed 

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Note the chic colleague (a man Milan-based) 

who's suggesting a button which, if nicely placed

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Notice the space near the gare Saint-Lazare 

where a colleague cum critic (most trend-setters are), 

stands suggesting a button which, if nicely placed

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Note Monsieur Jacques (I've ignored him so far) 

just arrived at the space near the gare Saint-Lazare 

where his trend-setting colleague (a binary star...?) 

stands suggesting a button which, if nicely placed 

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Note how the bus seat's abandon'd by Jacques

as the bus, rush-hour stuff'd, putt-i-putts up the block --  

that same Jacques whom, hours later, I spot in the space 

near the gare Saint-Lazare where Jacques' friend's face-to-face

while suggesting a button which, if nicely placed 

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Note how the bus seat, first emptied, then nabb'd, 

now's abandon'd by Jacques (perhaps Jacques should have cabb'd),  

whom some two hours later I spot in the space 

near the gare Saint-Lazare where his friend face-to-face

stands suggesting the button which, if nicely placed 

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Note the commuters vacating the bus, 

and the vacated seat (vacant seats prove a plus)

first-off emptied, then grabb'd, then abandon'd by Jacques,

whom some two hours later I spot up the block 

in that wide-open space near the gare Saint-Lazare 

where Jacques' trend-setting colleague (a haut-couture czar) 

stands suggesting a button which, if nicely placed

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Notice Jacques' leg, jostled (ouch!) by commuters 

(displaying the cheek of Penelope's suitors)

vacating the bus and one occupied seat

which, now empty, Jacques grabs then abandons (Vite! Vite!),

Jacques who two hours later I spot up the block 

in that wide-open space near the gare Saint-Lazare 

where his trend-setting colleague, his jacket ajar,

stands suggesting a button which, if nicely placed

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Note the fedora, with string for a band,

on a head perch'd atop a neck (length...? Sev'ral hand!)

of frère Jacques -- him whose leg, jabb'd 'n' jogg'd by commuters

(behaving as rubes do in Checkers 'n' Hooters)

vacating the bus and one occupied seat

which, now empty, Jacques grabs then abandons (repeat),

Jacques who two hours later I spot up the street 

in that wide-open space near the gare Saint-Lazare 

where his trend-setting colleague (post parking his car) 

stands suggesting a button which, if nicely placed

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Notice the platform, array'd 'round the rear

of the Contrescarpe-Champerret bus like a pier, 

onto which I have clamber'd while noting a chap,

one who's sporting a string-for-a-band sorta cap

and, as riders charge past, charges one fellow rider

of jostling his leg like some phantom collider

(who, raised in the wild, paid no heed to his tutors)

ignoring each unconcern'd rush-hour commuters

vacating the bus -- and the occupied seat

which, now empty, he snatches, then makes his retreat,

whom some two hours later I spot up the street 

in that wide-open space near the gare Saint-Lazare 

where his trend-setting colleague I spot from afar

standing broaching a button which, if nicely placed

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Notice yours truly whose verse I premier

by ascending the platform engaging the rear

of the Contrescarpe-Champerret bus like a pier 

onto which I have clamber'd while noting a chap

who is sporting a string-for-a-band brand of cap

and, as riders charge past, charges one fellow rider

of jostling his leg like some phantom collider

(who, raised in the wild, paid no heed to his tutors) 

ignoring the unconcern'd rush-hour commuters

vacating the bus and th'unoccupied seat

which he grabs then abandons (once more I repeat),

whom some two hours later I spot up the street 

in the wide-open space near the gare Saint-Lazare 

where his trend-setting colleague, who holds his sitar,

stands suggesting a button which, if nicely placed

just adjacent that button so awkwardly spaced, 

will embellish the velvet lapel which embraces 

the manteau de Jacques.

Live By The Sophism...

"We do more testing than anyone
and when you do more testing
you get a lot more cases."

"We do more rallies than anyone
and when you do more rallies
you rile a lot more bases."

"We do more voting than anyone
and when you do more voting
you win a lot more races."

"We do more counting than anyone
and when you do more counting
you face more cooda graces."

Runcibl'd Spooner: Gotta Dance!

Sip it neat or sip it chill'd;
sure'n' it's bound to get you tight:
Bailey's Irish Cream. 
     Paddy's fish which Sandy shill'd 

down at social dance last night:
ceilidh's Irish bream.

     Moral:

You say 'bodhran' and I say 'potatoes.'

One Haikuchen by Basho, Jr. ("The Linguist") & Two Runcibl'd Spooners by Uly Poe

A...E...I...O...U;
sometimes Y and sometimes not:
Vowels! (No consonants.)

Plath's roman. ('Tain't Mother Goose.)
The Bell Jar
     Counter Plath selects for mousse.
Gel bar
     Moral:
Get sticky or get sicky!

Lepidoptera and kin:
caterpillar.
     Who a comic's chat does in:
patter killer.
     Moral:
This is gold, Jerry. Gold!

Runcibl'd Spooner: Ah, there, GFH

Fuzzy slug. Later, bug. 

Woolly bear 

     MAGA hat on a prat. 

Bullywear 

     Moral 

Curse ‘em, sorta*

     * Or 'sursum corda,' as used 

to be chanted in certain quarters.

A Nonsense Plagiariana For Raymond Queneau (from "Exercises in Style: The Poetic Supplement," Number 262)

     Below is a fresh retelling employing the narrative ma-

terials provided by Queneau's "Notations" chapter in his 

Exercises, a reiteration incorporating the opening lines of 

twenty two famous novels drawn from the hundred best 

as determined by the American Book Review.

      You don't know about me without you have read 

a book by the name of Exercises in Style, but that ain't 

no matter. Call me Busman -- or Stately Plump Buck 

Mulligan if you've a mind -- for this is the saddest story 

you have ever heard. (In a sense I am Jacob Horner and 

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.) 

     If you really want to hear about it, the first thing 

you'll probably want to know is where I was born. I am 

a Frenchman, Paris born – Paris, that city of screaming 

which comes across the sky. For a long time, on bright 

cold days in April, with the clocks striking thirteen, I 

would leave my bed early so as to catch an S-line bus. 

The platform at the back of that bus is a foreign country; 

they do things differently there. 

     Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of this tale, 

or whether that station shall be held by some grotesque 

skinny-necked twenty-six-year-old commuter in a string-

banded fedora, this page must show. Happy commuters 

are all alike; every unhappy commuter is unhappy in his 

own way. The Contrescarpe-Champerret busrun, past Eve 

and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of boulevard, 

brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to 

Cour de Rome in front of gare Saint-Lazare. It is a truth 

universally acknowledged, that a single commuter in pos-

session of a faulty overcoat, may be in want of a button. 

     Many hours later, as that odd fellow with the unusual 

hat (and the doubtless defective outerwear) faced the 

firing-squad inquisitions of his clotheshorse friend, he 

was to remember that moment earlier in the afternoon 

he became so annoyed when, as each rush-hour rider 

exited the bus, the man standing adjacent to his leg icily 

jostled him. "La-dee-dah! Like lightning I dive, like my 

loins are afire," he thought as he leapt into a just-vacated 

seat. "Surely this is the worst of times. And yet it is the 

best of times, for I am not invisible, man, and if I am 

out of my mind, it's all right with me."

     The novels pilfered, altered and married with the 

narrative are, in the order they are so abused and with

their ranking number in parentheses, The Adventures

of Huckleberry Finn (12), Moby Dick (1), Ulysses (21), 

The Good Soldier (18), The End of the Road (34), I 

Capture the Castle (82), The Catcher in the Rye (16), 

The Adventures of Augie March (89), Gravity's Rainbow

(3), Swann's Way (40), 1984 (8), The Go-Between (78), 

David Copperfield (20), Anna Karenina (6), Finnegans 

Wake (7), Pride and Prejudice (2), One Hundred Years 

of Solitude (4), Lolita (5), A Tale of Two Cities (9), 

Invisible Man (10) and Herzog (69). 

Runcibl'ed Spooner: Appealing Peeling

"Skip"* reveals one's fam'ly tree.
He myths ancestral buries.
"Finding Your Roots"
     Scraping peels off lemons, limes,
and oranges. (Not cherries.)
Rinding your fruits
     Moral:

Incest and zest: only one is the best.

     * Henry Louis ("Skip") Gates

Haikumquat by Basho, Jr. ("The Linguist")

Lexical items;
informational structures:
Squish! Syllable word.

Runcibl'd Spooner: "You Rang, M'Lord...?"

The Vice-President's son.
(He's just one of the guys):
R. Hunter Biden
     Lord Peter's valet,
the man's donn'd a disguise:
Our Bunter, hidin.'
     Moral:
Crime may not pay.

Runcibl'd Spooner: "You're Nick'd!"

In London's the headquarters housing the cops

who give scofflaws 'n' crim'nals 'what for.'

Scotland Yard
     A firebug has lit up our lux'ry boat store,

destroying its whole second floor.
Yachtland's scarr'd.

     Moral:

Crime doesn't pay. Still, anchors aweigh!

Uly Poe's Sixth Voyage 'Round Archaedia: An Internally Rhyming Alphabet

A is for Andy: at 90, still randy.
B is for Billie: calls Andy “Sir Silly.”
C is for Clarke, who’s constructing an ark.
D is for Doris, caught bleeding her loris.
E is for Errol. Thank God the man’s sterile.
F is for Fran: starts each morning with bran.
G is for Gretchen, a femme fa-a-ar from fetchin.’
H is for Heidi: takes meals in her nightie.
I is for Ivan. (Is Ivan still drivin’…?)
J is for Jill, who’s rewriting her will.
K is for Keith. Keith’s been filing his teeth.
L’s for Laurindo: he flaunts his bay window.
M’s for Miranda: she breast feeds her panda.
N’s for Noreen of the proactive spleen.
O is for Otto: “Right now!”’s his new motto.
P’s for Pilar: keeps one eye in a jar.
Q is for Quinn. None know what state he’s in.
R is for Ross, First Floor Teaparty boss.
S is for Stephen, whose left leg’s uneven.
T is for Thor: shouts, “I’ll give ya ‘what for’!”
U’s for Ulysses: has no time for “sissies.”
V is for Vaughn. (Are those spats he has on…?)
W’s Wayne, who pretends to be Shane.
X is for Xavier. His issue’s behavior.
Y is for Yuri: a man in no hurry.
Z is for Zoltan: poor blighter’s been moultin.’