Drumpf Tweet Sent Moments After His Death

I'm going where...?
That's SO unfair!

S(o)uper Spooners #1 thru #6

     Runcibl'd Spooners are complex, 

some more than others. 

Southern web address (in part).

French go here to craft new art. 

     Dot Tupelo / Dot OuLiPo

Flickers wherein film buff dwells.

Elixir blend for casting spells.

     Motion pics / Potion mix

Film casts Redford, Gunn, Mostel.

Putrescence poses pork joint smell.

     The Hot Rock / The hock rot

Tale portraying evil world. 

Jav'lin by Rebekah hurl'd. 

     The Heart of Darkness / The dart of Harkness 

Set to wrestle with the right.

Incognito...if not quite.

     Biden/Harris / Hidin' bare ass

Star-cross'd lovers quill'd by Will. 

Stand-up's pal's obstrep'rous still.
     Romeo 'n' Juliet / Joe Mayo* unruly yet

     * This character, a good friend of 

Jerry's, appears in Seinfeld episode 

#168, "The Reverse Peephole."

26 Silly Things People Say in the Moments Immediately Following Their Deaths (A Post from the Past)

 Aamon...? Grim! 
(Who'd dance with him...?)      

But, as I'm here, 

eBay my bier! 

Curse the dark 'n' 

Philip Larkin! 

Di- (I fear I 

see) -es irae.

Enough's enough! 

(Putsch came to 'shuff.'*)

     * As in the Bard's “shuffle 

off this mortal...,” not "Shuffle 

Off to Buffal-...." 

Feelin' very 

“Alighieri.”

God's call'd Bel. 

(She's black as well.) 

He kindly stopp’d* -- 

'cuz out I'd opt.

     * Cf. Ms. Dickinson’s #479. 

I died. Mom lied. 

Ironicide! 

'Tis like they tol' ya: 

no magnolia.

Kiss good-bye yer 

ass, you liar!

Less is more...? 

Mere metaphor.

Memento mori. 

(Now who's sorry...?)

No sound...? No sight...? 

No shit! "Good" night*...?

      * As in Thomas’s 

“Do not go gen-…”

Off blocks, my chips...? 

Apocalypse!

Pride had shit 

to do with it.

Quite warm for May...? 

The hell, you say. 

Ripley said... 

('Course Ripley's dead.) 

Suspend the search! 

Arrivederch!

To be I'd not. 

So: off the pot.*

     * As in “shit or get…”

"Up, up..." and "a-"...? 

Propaganda! 

Very well: 

so this is hell. 

What the fuck! 

Of all the luck. 

X marks the spot. 

(By god, it's hot.) 

Yes or no...? 

Is that stuff snow...? 

Zeus...? Hello. 

(But I must go.)

     Coda per GFH 

But wait, there’s more

to answer for. 

I'll boldly go...

(But maybe no.)

Saeva indignatio...? 

Maybe I’ll just let it go. 

Comedy’s hard

in a churchyard.

Mon panache . . . 

I’ll take the cash.

Dog Days Doggerels: Today's States of Play in the US of A or Where Were You When the World Ended...?

“When going’s tough, the tough get going,”

Socrates scolds Saturday. 
(“When rowing’s rough, the rough go rowing"'s 

rarely read this latter way.) 
[As for me...? I phone for towing. 

“Yes I can!” I cannot say.] 
 
Woods 'n' weeds in Westworld...? Glowing. 

Fires 'n' floods leave natives numb. 
Mountains...? Mummified: no snowing!

How'll fresh water now forthcome...? 
[As for me...? I’m “Me is woe!”ing. 

(Or I, worse, play deaf and dumb.)] 
 
White supremacists keep crowing.

Equal rights...? Whose...? (Let me see...)

Unrav'ling homeland quilts need sewing

if we'd democratic be.

[As for me...? I'm towels in throwing.

Purple states look grey to me.]

Drumpf would plumpf for "Quid pro quo"ing,

acts transactional enact.

Far-fringe-right-wing horns keep blowing:

Pence 'n' Congress hacks attack'd!

[As for me...? I'm white flags showing,

yearning for altern'tive fact.]

CEOs at Shell and Boeing 

vie for share, cry “I’ve got dibs!” 

Homeless...? Starved, their numbers growing. 

(Note those frail unbloated ribs!) 
[As for me...? With Homer “Doh!”ing, 

wan, we don our lobster bibs.]

Economies...? All stall'd or slowing.

Quickly ocean temps wax hot.

Clouds appear -- clouds of unknowing.

Learning left us...? Not a lot.

[As for me...? I'm "cuppa joe"ing.

(I've this javaddiction got.)]

Ask'd "Are reparations owing...?"

whites reply, "Why'd I be fined...?

Slave stuff pass'd 'fore I got going."

[As for me...? The same old bind:

I'm "to 'n' fro"ing, "yes 'n' no"ing...:

when will it wake up (my mind)...?]

Is one answer "sis 'n' bro"ing...?

Malcolm thought so; so did King.

On each creature, love bestowing...?

Shall such salve solve ev'rything...?

[As for me...? I must be going

while's left time for one last fling.]

Spooner's War or The Cruelest Month

As struck the hour on April one 

of '17, the German lines

were breach'd: an Anglo-Irish doughboy 

cross'd a field awash in mines

to storm a nest of German guns, 

destroying it and sev'ral Huns.

This tommy trekk'd to diff'rent tunes. 

(He died that ev'ning from his wounds.)

      Five o'clock / Clive O'Fahque

Broken Rec-...-ken Rec-...-ken Rec-...

Hey, diddle did-... 

   till our nanny, Miss Bid-

dle, with emphases brit-

   tle, whilst splattering spit-

tle, claims, boil'd on a grid-

   dle, two jots plus a tit-

tle (admittedly, lit-

   tle) of ink from a squid-

'll attenuate pid-

   dle -- as li'l Alice Lid-

dell (who's caught in the mid-

   dle) in lieu of acquit-

tal rephrases her rid-

   dle. Who'll laugh...? Perhaps Syd-

'll...till cats with a fid-

   dle cause cows to embrit-

tle the moon.

         

Boshen Chamber of Commerce Welcomes New Alliterative Small Businesses

 Cass's Casa Käse (Mama's House of Cheese)

Carroll's Snark-Hunting Bellman Does Impressions of the Impressionists

One night only (for obvious reasons)

Before tracking snark, Carroll's man makes his mark

doing droll imitations, on stage,

of La Belle France art whizzes -- some Misters, some Mses.

His pageantry...? Thought all the rage.

For his Mary Cassatt, he lies bare dans a cot, 

keeping poppets -- a pair -- near to hand. 
This tableau vivant's best when one babe's at each breast. 
Oui: he's one of “les trois ladies grand.” ** 

* For line three, some mss substitute "With a

tot on each tit his routine proves a hit."

** The other two being, according to journalist

Gustave Geffroy, Berthe Morisot (for whom see below)

and Marie Bracquemond.

As he channels Cezanne, stuff he's drawn (notes one fan)

mirrors cylinders, spheroids 'n' cones.

Jabbing brushes, he pokes, stabbing tabular strokes

splatt'ring multichromatical tones.

Aping B. Morisot dans manteau apropos,

he rehearses with nurse's simplicity.

Noticed drawing her bath, he incarnates her path --

the one fost'ring French fam'ly felicity.

He Degas does as well. Grabbing pad and pastel,

he gives chasse toward a classical dancer.

Finding sev'ral, he renders 'em -- heavy 'n' slender, them.

(Why...? The poor guy has no answer.)

Those who've seen his Monet always "'Atta boy!" say

when très gay stacks of hay he's seen miming.

The success of his act he imputes to the fact

that he wields such intractable timing.

His finale's unique -- if, on balance, quite bleak.

Post this bit, very little remains.

Cocking Glock, he makes show, aping Vincent van Gogh,

to (conclusively) blow out his brains.