An Epstein asks that I, Jill Biden, stop Continued use of “Dr.” with my name, As I can’t hand out pills or do an op— Doc Kissinger is handicapped the same! Epsteinian opinion has been filed: Man wisely once said “Doc” should not be used If you have not delivered someone’s child— Concerning which, of fraud I stand accused! … Dear Mr. Epstein, though you mis-compared Our doctorates—yours doled out free, mine earned, Can you not see your own words have you snared? They verify my “Doc” should not be spurned, Once with your wise man’s sayings reconciled— Remember I delivered my own child!
“I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone for continuing to participate
in the strange human beauty that is this art form.” —Email from Timothy Green, editor of Rattle
How strange the human beauty
That writing poems is:
Not narwhalesque or newty,
But strangely human beauty;
Let’s voice in accents fluty
Our recognition, viz:
How strange the human beauty
That writing poems is!
“The Texas GOP had a fit after the Supreme Court rejected their bid to flip the election
in Trump’s favor, and now they’re hinting at secession” —Business Insider
The Court refused to throw out votes
That didn’t go our way.
It’s time for us to grab our flags
And leave the USA.
We are the real Americans,
A patriotic breed,
As everyone can tell from our
Intention to secede.
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, my Guests bestowed on me: Twelve Babes A-Weeping Eleven Grannies Griping Ten Students Strumming Nine Strangers Chancing Eight Teens A-Sulking Seven Sinks A-Brimming Six Discs Not-Playing Five Mold Rings; Four Boring Nerds Three Dud Pens Two Dirty Gloves
And a Part-Now-Missing TV!
There is nobody home at PayPal—
For answers, I must go online.
They have proffered a list of questions
Which bear no resemblance to mine;
And then to fuel my frustration,
Some customer service guru
Has recorded this declaration:
“We will always be here for you.”
“Bob Dylan sells entire publishing catalogue to Universal Music … “It’s no secret that that the art of songwriting is the fundamental key to all great music,” said Sir Lucian Grainge, the chief executive.” —The Guardian
Love’s just a four-letter word; so’s cash:
Bring on that zillion-dollar bash!
People are crazy and times are strange:
And that’s why I’ve sold to Sir Lucian Grainge.
“First Lady Melania Trump Announces Completion of the New White House Tennis Pavilion” —Whitehouse.gov
O beautiful in buffering,
If not our national pain,
First Families’ future suffering
From golfing’s stress and strain,
Melania, Melania,
A racket bump to thee!
You raised a shout, on your way out,
For tennis in DC.
“Mystery sender returns key ‘borrowed’ from Norman tower in 1973 … The note read: “Dear English Heritage. Please find enclosed, large key to … [sic] ‘St Leonard’s Tower, West Malling, Kent.’ It added: ‘Borrowed 1973. Returned 2020. ‘Sorry for the delay. Regards.’” —The Guardian
Dear English Heritage, Please find
Enclosed what you (de facto) lent
To me, the not-quite-undersigned,
While touring in West Malling, Kent.
Full forty-seven years ago,
I borrowed your substantial key,
Returned, with this—delayed, I know—
Anonymous apology.
Perhaps not quite the full nine yards,
But guilt goes just so far. Regards.
“A DELIVERY driver dad has been left heartbroken after reading the letter his young son wrote to Santa Claus this Christmas.” —The Irish Post
Dear Santa, I don’t often see my dad: Express-van driving means that he gets free Long after I’m in bed. It makes me sad— I wish my dad could spend more time with me! … Vans don’t seem to deliver parcels right, Especially when they’re compared to sleighs: Round all the world you go in just one night— My dad can’t do one town in seven days! … Each day, while he’s away, I wonder why My dad’s employer can’t produce a fix— Your ways are so efficient, could you try, Dear Santa, to teach UPS some tricks? And if you help—I truly am sincere— Dear Santa, I’ll be good throughout the year!
“Provided with a board full of buttons, some pets appear to be communicating with their humans—and researchers are investigating … More than 1,000 dogs, 50 cats and a few horses are involved in the project— with more applicants every day.” —The Guardian
When I applied, I knew, of course,
My chance was slim. I am a horse,
And I’m aware the bureaucrats
Take twenty times as many cats,
And as for dogs! What hierarchs
Place such a premium on barks?
But undeterred I stamped the form.
I’m not afraid to buck the norm,
If just so someone has applied
Who will not take you for a ride.
“The robot kitchen that will make you dinner—and wash up too The price tag of £248,000 might make your eyes water but Moley Robotics claims to have more than 1,000 potential buyers” —The Guardian
A quarter of a million pounds
Will buy a self-propelled cuisine
That bakes, sautés, clears coffee grounds,
And leaves itself sublimely clean.
But if, each night for seven years,
You hired a chef for ninety quid,
You’d still have cash to buy at Sears
A super saucepan, with a lid.
“Amid a slump in tourism, one national park in Thailand has seen a dramatic rise in visitors. So numerous are the hermit crabs thronging the otherwise empty beaches of Koh Lanta that shells for them to live in have become a scarce commodity. The Thai government moved quickly to ease the housing shortage, launching a public appeal for empty shells that netted over 200kg. … Hermit crabs rely on discarded shells to protect their soft bodies, moving to larger shells as they grow.” —The Economist
Learn a lesson from the Crab:
Claim whatever you can grab!
Though it may be gritty, damp,
And so small it gives you cramp,
Seize that empty cockleshell:
You’ve a home. You’re doing well.
As you cram your flimsy space,
Spare a thought for those who face
What your luck may keep away:
Wind, and rain, and birds of prey.
