“Edgar Allan Poe’s pocket watch among donations to museum” —The Guardian
Once within my mournful mansion, while I cursed my choice of scansion
With my face against my pillow and my clothes upon the floor—
While I burrowed, semi-sleeping, suddenly there came a beeping
As of someone smugly cheeping, cheeping like a total bore.
“’Tis some nightmare,” I protested, “’tis 6:30, I am sure!” Quoth the timepiece: “8:04.”
Then this witchy watch compelling my sad fancy into yelling
By the self-important aspect it rebarbatively wore,
“Though your face be scratched and glassy, thou,” I said, “art bold and brassy;
Would thou wert in Tallahassee and myself in Elsinore!
Do not tell me what your name is, we have not the least rapport.” Quoth the timepiece: “9:04.”
And that timepiece, eardrum-stinging, still is pinging, still is pinging
On the grimy undergarments that adorn my chamber floor;
And its tone has all the beauty of an owl’s that’s extra-hooty—
Nothing delicate or fluty—and my very brain is sore;
Though I know it’s still 6:30, in a voice I can’t ignore Quoth the timepiece: “10:04 …”
“Ukraine warns of cyberattacks on banks…” —Reuters
“One result [of Russia’s attack] would be to push Russia to have closer economic ties to China… ‘Russia is likely to pivot all energy and commodity exports to China’…” —The New York Times
Jiggery-pokery,
cybersecurity
vulnerabilities
threaten the banks;
geopolitically,
Machiavellian
actors are banking on
Vladimir’s tanks.
“Reef ball burials: the new trend for becoming ‘coral’ when you die… Most of the world’s reefs are at risk—from ocean warming and acidification, pollution and overfishing…” —The Guardian
Full fathom five please let me lie:
Of my bones be corals built;
Then, I take it, when I die,
I’ll lose this never-ending guilt.
His name was Barry, he was a showman:
He had yellow curly hair and his trousers were aflare;
He sang of Sandra, and also Mandy;
He wrote the songs that once we knew;
Now in 2022,
New Zealand blasts his tunes at anti-vax platoons:
If they counter, they just sound moany,
As he lilts and croons.
At the convoy (co) co-co-co-convoy,
A crowd much too loud for an envoy;
At the convoy (co), co-co-co-convoy,
Rather than Barry they’d take hari kari:
At the convoy they were aghast.
His name was Barry, he was a showman:
He had long been quite uncool but his agent was no fool,
No need for shame now, he’s proved his fame now,
And he’s riding very high
On the peaks of Spotify
While statesmen aim his tracks at grumpy maniacs;
He’s lost his youth but reclaimed his Tony,
And endorsed the vax.
For the convoy (co) co-co-co convoy,
A crowd much too loud for an envoy;
At the convoy (co), co-co-co-convoy,
Though they blockaded, it looks like he made it:
Could this be the magic at last?
“India bourse head was a ‘puppet’ of unnamed yogi… [A] nameless ‘spiritual guru’ in the Himalayas was influencing key business decisions at the country’s largest stock exchange.” —BBC News
Harumy-scarumy,
India’s stock exchange
might have been subject to
volatile swings
during the tenuous
time when the Master was
animatronically
pulling the strings.
“Four years after Parkland school massacre, parents of victims protest and mourn. Manuel Oliver, father of Parkland shooting victim Joaquin Oliver, displays a banner from a [150-foot] construction crane near the White House calling on officials to prioritize gun violence prevention policies.” —The Washington Post
Warily, scarily,
Bold Mr. Oliver
Scaled the steel ladder in
Spite of his fears,
Uncompromisingly
Telling the president:
Parents serve terms lasting
More than four years.
