The election’s so tight I lie sleepless at night,
juggling numbers that fail to console. Ample margins of error make me shudder in terror.
How I long for a trustworthy poll!
Experts point to dispersion— or perhaps it’s reversion?
Is inducing psychosis their goal? Talk of sampling technique might as well be in Greek.
Can’t they give me a trustworthy poll?
Each uncertain statistic makes my pulse go ballistic,
drives my blood pressure out of control. Starved of what I desire, I shall surely expire
for the want of a trustworthy poll.
“A man from central Iowa has broken the Guinness World Record for the fastest motorized wheelbarrow. … Friends and family gathered in support [as he] set the new record at 57 kph.” —WHO13
so much depends
upon cheering from friends
when making a Guinness-Book winner
he broke record speed
then after the deed
they ate the white chickens for dinner
“Swiss Court Rules Workers Must Clock Out For Bathroom Breaks… ‘Swiss law does not mention the right of employees to go to the toilet…’ [T]he company believed the issue was generally about ‘an interruption of work…’” —HuffPost
Hurried, harried
Swiss employees
do their duties
much in haste;
firms concerned that
interruptions
waste their time can
time their waste.
*Alex Steelsmith calls this poem a “double trochee.” For his suggested guidelines to writing your own, click here.
“Is Donald Trump the greatest grifter of them all? Melania is giving him a run for his money” —The Guardian
Good family man, he is; A whiz, he is, at biz, And so I give him all my heart’s devotion.
(I loathe his ugly mug,
But with a book to plug,
I’ve got to play my part and do promotion.)
A savior he will be To keep our country free, So vote for him again the way I’m doing!
(If this might get my spouse
The hell out of our house,
There’s not a lie that I won’t keep on spewing.)
It’s time to take my shot: You love me, do you not, And find me, as First Lady, most compelling?
(I really do not care—
That’s on the clothes I wear—
As long as merchandise of mine is selling.)
“Voters don’t believe Boris Johnson’s most controversial claims in new book, poll finds” —The Independent
Believe in me. This modest ego trip Of fewer than eight hundred pages will Retell the story of my statesmanship. In retrospect, it will appear as skill. Spare‘s author, whom, with manly pep talks, I Urged not to leave GB, may claim we had No chats; the Palace may flat out deny Liz R had sought my help; that Oxford grad Ennobled, Dave, who fought the Brexiteer And lost, may yet gainsay aspersions he Slung swearingly my way; and polls, I hear, Have found that voters too do not trust me. Et tu, Brute? … The joke may soon hit home, Dear reader—you have bought a rubbish tome!
“Conkers cheating row as men’s champion found with steel chestnut: David Jakins [“King Conker”] says metal replica discovered in his pocket was only ‘for humour value’” —The Telegraph
Out of the green, o’er-prickled case,
As glossy as the noblest steed,
It swings in might, till all give place
To my unconquerable seed!
Confronted by the strongest foe,
It would not deign to dodge the act,
Prevailing with a single blow:
A little dented, but uncracked.
What though a rival, sick with spite,
Found in my garb a seed of steel?
That was for jest and not for fight,
And we shall win upon appeal.
It matters not how losers sore
Like Johnson-Ferguson demur:
Roan Beauty triumphs! And the corps
Of kings and conquerors concur.
They’ve grown accustomed to his hate…
They call it “riling up the news.”
They love the music of his wails,
the Molotov cocktails
of threats and cries,
transparent lies.
They know he’d never do that crap.
It’s just the way he likes to schmooze…
He promised lots of stuff before
that never made it past his lips.
Surely only fools would think
he’d cash in all his chips.
They’ve grown accustomed to his nice,
his synonym for White,
accustomed to his hate…
They are so used to hear him say
to them, “I love you,” every day…
his hos, his lows,
his lists of foes
are second nature to them now,
like getting all their news from X.
And they’re so grateful he’s a man
who can keep women in their place,
raping them with feudal laws
and, lordly, by His Grace,
they’ve grown accustomed to a boar
who’s “fascist to the core,”
accustomed to his hate…
“Woman Who Tried to Smuggle 29 Turtles Wrapped in Socks Pleads Guilty: A resident of Hong Kong was caught while paddling across a lake from Vermont to Canada in an inflatable kayak with the Eastern box turtles in a duffle bag…” —The New York Times
Twenty-nine is quite a haul!
Fourteen pairs of socks in all…
Plus, one lone soul without a mate.
(My laundry mirrors Turtlegate.)
“NASA Launches Europa Clipper to Explore an Ocean Moon’s Habitability” —The New York Times
Off for Europa! It will take it years,
But what the Clipper spacecraft “sees” and “hears”
Will give us knowledge precious and profound—
Provided, that is, we are still around.
“Emmanuel Macron: We will fight hard to keep Emily in Paris in France: Hugely successful Netflix show has been a boon to French tourism but latest season takes events to Rome
… [According to Macron:] ‘Emily in Paris in Rome doesn’t make sense.’” —The Guardian
Shall I say what I feel for this timeless ville,
As I stuff my croissants with clichés?
Though eternal it’s not, it beats Rome by a lot
And it merits this twofold praise:
I love Emily in Paris in Paris,
I love Emily in Paris in la France,
I love queuing for the Louvre in the Louvre,
I love Sartre with his oeuvre, said as “ouvre”;
I love Paris in Paris in the springtime,
I love Paris in Paris in the fall,
I love Paris in Emily in Paris,
And Charles de Gaulle de Gaulle de Gaulle de Gaulle de Gaulle.
