by Stephen Gold
“[Brazil] is facing more Covid deaths and cases than ever… . In addition to a president who scoffs at the disease,
rejects masks and leaves each state on its own, the country plays host to a variant that’s more
contagious and possibly deadlier.”
—Bloomberg
(To the tune of “The Coffee Song”)
Way down among Brazilians,
It’s infecting multi-millions,
There ain’t never been so many people ill.
They’ve got an awful lot of coffins in Brazil.
That moron Bolsonaro
Chills his people to the marrow,
When he tells them, “You don’t even need a pill!”
No ifs or buts, that guy’s just nuts, down in Brazil.
Look out for fatality,
In every locality,
And favela dwellers yelling, “Won’t you go, go, go!”
So have you felt a shiver?
Did the Amazon deliver
You a virus who’s desirous to kill?
It won’t make nice. Take my advice, and make your will!
by Nora Jay
“‘My pubic hair paintings could hang in your living room’: the artists reclaiming women’s sexuality”
—The Guardian
My pubic hair paintings could hang in your living room!
Think of the prospect, the wondering hush:
Find yourself, purchaser, simply by giving room,
Brushing with justice and fame! (What a brush!)
The pubic is public, it’s not just a hobby;
Re-snatched sexuality’s now a hot buy:
Hang me with pride in your foyer, or lobby,
Or 30-foot atrium. (Discounts apply.)
by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
“Pope Francis says secret to a long life is no exercise, daily naps and classical music”
—The Irish Post
Pope Francis does not like to exercise,
As it would leave too little time for sleep:
Postprandial siestas, in his eyes,
Are sacred rites a pope is bound to keep!
Lord knows, at eighty-four, he’s going strong:
Longevity prevails, but not the gym.
Old J.S. Bach is why this pope lives long—
Non-Catholic composers rock for him!
God’s on his side, and after lunch, so’s he,
Enrobed—though shoeless, he won’t doff his gown.
Vin rouge and pasta seem to be so key,
Inducing this life-lengthening lie-down! …
The sedentary pope prompts doctors’ fears—
Yet he may still outlive them all by years!
by Eddie Aderne
“Vladimir Nabokov’s Superman poem published for the first time
In ‘The Man of To-morrow’s Lament’, rejected by the New Yorker in 1942, the Lolita author imagines
the superhero mourning his inability to have children with Lois Lane'”
—The Guardian
O Lois, O Lois, O light of my loins!
Alas, I’m compiled with such obvious joins
(Aside from my habit, which scarcely invites,
Of wearing my underwear over my tights)
That you, my sweet sin, may not find me your type;
Besides, to be frank, you’re a touch overripe;
But though we may neither conceive nor beget,
I nonetheless swear, my archaic nymphet,
I’d fly, for your sake, the extraneous mile!
You can count on your Clark for a fancy verse style.
by Lynn Gilbert
“Falling sperm counts ‘threaten human survival,’ expert warns.”
—The Guardian
A research M.D., Shanna Swan,
has her doubts that we humans can spawn:
The species is growing infirm
because of its low count of sperm.
Of benchmarks for vulnerable species,
we meet three of five—that’s what she sees.
The planet sighs, “I’ll get along
if humankind sings its Swan song.”
by Julia Griffin
“NASA’s Perseverance Rover sends sneak peek of Mars landing”
—NASA
“And he, who did not know his name, realized and said his name was Perceval the Welshman,
nor did he know if he spoke the truth or not, but he spoke the truth even if he did not know.”
—Chrétien de Troyes, The Story of the Grail (lines 3573-77)
The place was dolorous. He scanned
A waterless and wasted land
For signs that something once had grown;
The only shadow was his own.
He caught his image, metal-clad,
Proof of a quest too high and mad
For common men. For this he came,
Charged with instructions, and a name
He could not know, but those who knew
Called “Perseverance.” Which was true.
by Chris O’Carroll
“Pennsylvania man snaps picture of rare half-male, half-female cardinal”
—USA Today
Cardinal’s plumage shows
Gynandromorphism—
Gal on the left side and
Guy on the right,
Ornithological
Rarity sure to twist
Marjorie Taylor Greene’s
Knickers too tight.
by Brendan Beary
“A Capitol rioter texted his ex during the insurrection to call her a ‘moron,’ feds say. She turned him in.”
—The Washington Post
Oh, never say that I was false at heart—
To see how you defame and vilify
Just steels the resolution on my part
To turn you over to the FBI.
Our love quite long ago had lost its bloom;
How you thought this would change things, I can’t tell.
Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room,
So you’ll do nicely with a prison cell.
For seeing you disparaging me so
Just makes me more determined to resist
Your pleas to reunite; as you must know,
Hell hath no fury like a woman dissed.
Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow,
But let me ask you: Who’s the moron now?
by Alex Steelsmith
“He’s definitely one of the toughest players that I ever faced in my life,” Djokovic said. “It’s a matter of
time before you’re going to hold a Grand Slam, that’s for sure.” And then he joked to Medvedev,
a 25-year-old from Russia who hadn’t lost to anyone since October:
“If you don’t mind waiting a few more years…”
—Novak Djokovic after winning the Australian Open
Tennis-y court-esy,
Novak T. Djokovic,
ending the match with a
masterful stroke,
honored his rival with
amicability,
complimentarily
serving a djoke.
by Dan Campion
“Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Poet Who Nurtured the Beats, Dies at 101”
—The New York Times
When I barged in his office door
Admitting North Beach traffic’s roar,
A stranger from the Middle West
In beard and jeans and rawhide vest,
He might have simply said, “So long,”
And who’d have thought him in the wrong?
Instead, he gave me such a look
As you might guess who’ve read the book
I held out, nerves in disarray,
Forgetting what I’d meant to say,
My heart in Tilt-a-Whirl dismay,
And with a smile both beat and kind
Dear Lawrence Ferlinghetti signed
A Coney Island of the Mind.
by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons
“Harry and Meghan will not return as working royals, says palace
Duke and Duchess of Sussex to give up honorary military appointments and royal patronages”
—The Guardian
How do you keep the perks of royal life,
Avoiding all the duties it entails—
Remain Your Royal Highness when your wife
Reveals no love for ribbon-cutting trails?
Yes, London has been left behind for good,
As we prefer escaping from the press,
Not in old England, but in Hollywood—
Dispensing royal glamor for largesse!
Modernity’s what forced our final break:
Elizabeth, we think, is too passé.
God Save the Queen, but we would rather make
Her grandson free to profit all the way,
And though not patrons, since we’re absentee,
Now we’re still royal spirits—duty-free!
by Barbara Loots
“This week, Israel’s Redefine Meat raised US$29 million in funding to build a large-scale pilot factory
that will produce 3D-printed beef cuts, ranging from rump to brisket.”
—Big News Network
1.
What shall we print for supper, dear?
A roast? A steak? A brisket?
What beast it comes from isn’t clear—
but if you’re game, we’ll risk it!
2.
A clever young chef from Marseille
Said, “Print out the evening’s entrée!”
It wasn’t the menu
He meant for his venue,
But Redefine Ribeye. Oy vey!
by Bruce Bennett
“Peacock who became a London lockdown symbol of hope is killed by foxes”
—The Washington Post
Let’s hear it for Kevin, a bird who was cool!
He made things much better for kids at the school.
He preened and he strutted. He knew what to do
To keep people happy. Adults loved him too.
But think of what happens when someone’s too good.
Some predator hates him and creeps from some wood
And stalks him and gets him sometime in the night.
Poor creatures like Kevin are not born to fight.
They’re born to show off and with feathers galore
Teach love-stricken gawkers what Beauty is for.
Delighting in excess and high on display,
Their every small gesture will brighten one’s day,
And that’s why they’re hated by those who hate joy;
Whose motives are malice; who live to destroy;
Who cannot stand actors who help others cope
And drive away sorrow by giving folks hope!
So, Kevin, please know as you strut in the sky,
We love you and miss you. This isn’t Goodbye.
You’ll live in our hearts. You will not disappear.
Tail-up and triumphant, you’ll always be here!
by Ruth S. Baker
“New limb for Triumph, the koala born with missing foot, thanks to Lismore dental prosthetist”
—Australian BC News
Triumph by name and nature, there he goes,
Flaunting his fine new dental-putty toes.
Where once he dragged, he scampers now with zest,
And scales his eucalyptus with the best;
Posture restored, mobility regained,
Koala T (O mercy!) is not strained.
by Iris Herriot
“Two US women pose as ‘grannies’ to skip vaccine queue
Two women aged 34 and 44 attempted to pass as over-65s in Florida in order to jump the queue
and receive their Covid-19 vaccines ahead of schedule, authorities have said.”
—BBC News
Desiring to avoid the queue,
We posed as grannies (as you do)
And trotted to the interview
To get our second jab (of two),
But up the whole thing sadly blew:
Our smart disguise was soon seen through,
And Florida now wants to sue.
Was it our gait? Our choice of shoe?
Oh no. Just blame two youngsters who
Forgot how thickly grans accrue
Round here. They must have seen a few,
If not a veritable slew,
Those vaccine guys! They know. They knew.
