by Chris O’Carroll

“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.

by Julia Griffin

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!

by Pat D’Amico

“Customer service may not be available.”
—PayPal

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.”

—ABC

by Bruce Bennett

William Shakespeare, may you thrive—
though not famous, still alive.

Twitter wits may make us chortle,
but one need not be immortal

To seek safety through immunity.
William, go forth with impunity.

Make the most of healthful days.
So what if you wrote no plays?

Besting Covid is enough.
You and we are all such stuff

Dreams are made on. That’s our club.
Celebrate that in a pub.

Raise a glass, and share some laughter.
Bugger Covid! Drink to After.

by Nora Jay

“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.

by Dan Campion

“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.

by Eddie Aderne

“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.

by Mike Mesterton-Gibbons

“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!

by Ruth S. Baker

“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.

by Iris Herriot

“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.

by David Hedges

They’re growing steaks from human cells,
The dauntless New York Times reports.
The chefs at some five-star hotels
And restaurants are out of sorts.

What if their clientele demand
Filets d’l’homme and other treats?
Viandes traditionnelles in hand,
They’re disinclined to cook faux meats.

Then there’s the matter of just how
Those folks with ethical concerns
Detach a human from a cow,
A pig, a lamb. The question burns.

by Julia Griffin

for Mary A.

“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.

by Jean L. Kreiling

(Sung to the tune of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” )

“… the safest way to celebrate holidays is to celebrate at home with the people you live with.”
—Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

I’ll be home for Christmas,
per the CDC—
feeling low
that I can’t go
where I would rather be.
Christmas Eve should find me
hugging relatives,
but I’ll be home for Christmas,
where no one but me lives.

I’ll be home for Christmas—
safe at home, that’s me.
I’ll hang no
damned mistletoe;
I won’t put up a tree.
Christmas Eve will find me
where no lovelight gleams;
Home alone at Christmas—
my only choice, it seems.

While I’m home for Christmas,
maybe I’ll sleep late.
And I’ll eat
every last treat—
no need to share or wait.
Christmas Eve may find me
drunk or getting high;
I’ll be home for Christmas,
determined not to cry.

by Julia Griffin

“Jupiter and Saturn will look like a double planet just in time for Christmas”
—CNN

for Tam

This Yule, of all strange chances,
We’ll see a bright new pattern,
As Jupiter advances
Towards advancing Saturn.

Pale Saturn’s ringlets jingle,
Quite openly besotted,
While Jupiter, long single,
Is blushing, rosy-spotted.

If you think this is sappy,
I recommend a U-turn:
We all should be so happy
As Sapiter with Juturn.

by Brendan Beary

“Anti-Gay Hungarian Politician Resigns After Being Caught At Massive Male Orgy [in Brussels]
In Violation Of COVID-19 Restrictions”
—Daily Caller

You may act one way at home
But you know that when in Rome,
You’re advised to do the things the Romans do;
Well, in Brussels it’s the same—
So you can’t be held to blame
If they threw an orgy and invited you.

Back in Hungary your days
Have been spent oppressing gays
With the policies and laws that you produce.
But now everybody knows you’re
Quite indecent an ex-poseur
And your “family values” stance was just a ruse.

The hypocrisy looks awful,
But your bawdy Belgian waffle
Isn’t why you just resigned beneath a cloud;
No, what got you apprehended
Is the number that attended,
For your saturnalia drew too large a crowd.

In our current Covid crisis
We’re all making sacrifices,
Such that even making whoopee’s making do.
So it wouldn’t really hurt you
If your vice possessed some virtue:
Keep your gangbangs down to just “we happy few.”

There’s a cynical contempt
In your thinking you’re exempt,
That your status makes you not like all the rest.
Let the sentence fit the crime
With some solo sex this time:
You can [[screw]] yourself right back to Budapest.