by Iris Herriot

“S.F. Mayor London Breed had her own French Laundry [3-star Michelin restaurant] party … while encouraging others to avoid gatherings.”
—San Francisco Chronicle

The mayor’s name was London; she kept the party clean
By booking with French Laundry for non-starchy haute cuisine.
Good taste but awkward timing!—the tone of this was deaf;
The details just not credible (or only in S.F.).

by Nina Parmenter

Last-minute talks to save the UK from a disastrous no-deal “hard Brexit” in less than a month have
stalled on a few remaining issues—one of the biggest being fishing rights. 

Hard Brexit may no longer be the wish
of weary Brits—in fact it’s almost cruel,
but still I’ll do it, and I’ll blame the fish.
Hard Brexit may no longer be the wish
of most, but how they’ll benefit! Well, ish—
it’s bound to help some chaps I knew at school.
Hard Brexit may no longer be our wish,
but still let’s do it. And we’ll blame the fish.

Bridgewater, Mass.

by Joyce Wilson

The officer on duty was amused
By neighbors who complained they were abused
When, on one side, a resident was drawn
To blowing leaves into another’s lawn.

While standing where the boundary divides,
He found more leaves had fallen on both sides.
It seemed the leaves were only being fair
By falling generally, and everywhere.

by Nora Jay

“The Crown Season 4: Princess Diana is Finally Here”
—The New York Times

How peaceful they were, those Diana-less years,
When Britons seemed done with collapsing in tears!
How calm were those decades—it seems almost scary—
When hearing “Princess,” little girls would think “Fairy”;
The name of “Diana” had stopped raising sparks,
And “Spencer” again was united with “Marks.”
Now—thanks to the soapy but sulphurous Crown—
Once more the poor People’s Princess must go down:
The nation returns to those fantasized scenes,
And argues how much of the blame is the Queen’s;
We watch and recharge that vicarious pain,
Till angry red tear ducts are gushing again.

by Ruth S. Baker

“Darth Vader actor Dave Prowse dies aged 85 …
Prowse was in the Vader suit for much of the Sith Lord’s screen time and reputedly even got to
speak his lines on set, though his west country tones were dubbed over with those of American
actor James Earl Jones in post-production …
Prowse and Lucas later fell out, leading to Prowse being banned from official Star Wars
activities in 2010 …
Despite the fame he won as Vader, Prowse said he was most proud of his role as the Green
Cross Man in a long-running British road safety campaign, for which he was awarded an MBE in 2000.”
—The Guardian

Here Darth Vader lies, whose bones
Were not played by James Earl Jones:
Son of Lucas, dad of Luke,
Oedipus in guise of spook,
And—in quite another mode—
Hero of the Green Cross Code.
Reader, if you’d speak his praise,
Say that, having looked both ways,
Vader crossed, with booted stride,
Safely to the brighter side.

by Coleman Glenn

A Google worker found a fault
that let a hacker access
the data in your iPhone’s vault,
from photos to back taxes.

They’ve fixed it! Now your data’s tight-
ly held by some technician.
It’s nice when corporate foes unite
to squash their competition.

by Julia Griffin

(with acknowledgments to “Lepanto,” by G. K. Chesterton)

Red states turning like the barrel of a gun,
However many times the re-re-counts are re-re-done;
There’s laughter in the newsrooms, a voice that hoots and mocks:
It’s stirring MSNBC; it’s even stirring Fox.
Across the seas a murmur runs: “How long can he refuse?”
But down in palmy Florida,
(Golf course and private spa),
Don Don of Lostria
Is raging at the news.

The burghers of Wisconsin are standing by their votes;
The stalwart Pennsylvanians, they scorn to turn their coats;
The state that nurtured John McCain swears never to conform;
Democrats whoop Hurrah!
Ra Ra and Ooh là là!—
Don Don of Lostria
Is tweeting up a storm.

The Barr’s pursuit of voter fraud has found precisely none.
(Don Don of Lostria is twittering I WON!)
Streaky Giuliani is pacing all about,
Denouncing justices who baulk at throwing ballots out;
McConnell’s lying very low, his hand is all unshown;
Eric, etcetera,
Try to recruit for Pa:
Don Don of Lostria
Is fighting with his own.

Late-night comedians are dancing on the air
(Don Don of Lostria is plumping up his hair);
The very GOP begins to recognize the score;
But now, as sure as algebra,
Don Don of Lostria
(Denied his rightful coup d’état),
Gets set for ’24.

by Brian Allgar

“Lame duck pardons turkey”
—The Guardian

“5 Federal Inmates Scheduled for Execution During Final Weeks of Trump Presidency”
—Voice of America

Well, sure, I had to pardon that poor turkey;
“Thou shalt not kill.” That message always stuck.
Believe me, life’s a thing I’ve always valued.
So what if folks are calling me “lame duck”?

But though I value life, in certain cases
A pardon’s something that would really suck.
Before I leave, I’ve planned five executions—
Hey, since they’re humans, I don’t give a fuck!

by David Hedges

Listening to the news with half an ear,
I am dumbfounded by the words I hear.
Abe Lincoln’s been appointed to a post
In Biden’s inner circle. Could Abe’s ghost
Have risen in our hour of greatest need?
His name’s A. Blinken, as I later read.

by Julia Griffin

“The seven-inch-tall northern saw-whet, one of North America’s tiniest owl-species, was found
nestled inside the base of a 75-foot-tall spruce tree that had been chopped down in upstate New York and transported by truck to … Rockefeller Plaza, to be erected as its annual iconic Christmas tree.”
—National Geographic

for Katherine

That’s not my name. I hope you’ll not confuse
My kinsfowl with some oily parvenus;
Nor would I say I’m “tiny”: seven inches
Is twice (at least) the length of many finches.
I hate to boast, but I’ve a pedigree
That might surprise you. That first hacked-down tree
The Lorax popped from? My great-grandma’s place:
A blameless victim of your axe-mad race.
That cherry tree George Washington laid flat?
Two of my foreowls were enfeoffed with that;
And that first pear tree? Auntie’s, every stick,
Till chopped and rented to some partridge chick.
I could go on. Whenever you’ve inflicted
An axe upon a tree, guess who’s evicted?
My luckless kin’s been doomed to nest in vain
Since Birnam Wood took off for Dunsinane.

by Chris O’Carroll

“Austrian village of Fucking to be renamed Fugging”
—Politico

The village of Fucking is changing its name.
Now Austria’s frickin’ map won’t look the same.
Will dropping their “Fuck” bring the Fuggingers joy?
Perhaps we should ask Effingham, Illinois.

by Dan Campion

“That’s a sacred number, thirty thousand.”
—President Donald J. Trump, commenting on the Dow-Jones Industrial Average

O beautiful for high-rise skies,
Diplomas (for a fee),
Red MAGA caps and long silk ties,
God showers gold on thee!
America! America!
Don thanks you for your trust!
So, dearest friends: pay dividends
Before his brand goes bust.

by Iris Herriot

“One of the year’s most remarkable linguistic developments, according to the OED,
has been the extent to which scientific terms have entered general discourse,
as we have all become armchair epidemiologists, with most of us now familiar with
the term ‘R number’.
“Before 2020 this was a term known mainly to epidemiologists; now non-experts routinely
talk about ‘getting the R down’ or ‘bringing R below 1’. …
Use of ‘Black Lives Matter’ and ‘BLM’ also surged, as did the term ‘QAnon’,
up by 5,716% on last year. … Use of ‘Brexit’, however, has dropped by 80% this year.”
—The Guardian

This year’s new words, it might appear, just bother and encumber,
But one of them we do enjoy: that’s R, the verbal number.
This entity, obscure last year as prehistoric mists,
Makes sense now we’re all armchair epidemiologists:
We’re following the science, never letting mask or guard down,
Workationing remotely, mailing in to get the R down;
We’re flattening the curve, creating bubbles (not for fun),
Intent on bringing R beneath the numeral of 1.
Community-transmissioners unmute but find no takers;
When R is up they’re feeling down, likewise the circuit-breakers;
Though Brexit’s round the corner, it’s less popular by far
Than BLM and QAnon and good old number R.

by Bruce Bennett

As Covid surges and the country sinks,
Where is our modern Nero? On the links.

by Eddie Aderne

“Arts world dismayed at fate of London home of Rimbaud and Verlaine
Graham Henderson, R&V’s chief executive … [said] “the seismic importance of events that
happened there, people are still writing books about. These events have achieved
mythic status.”
He was referring to the poets’ devastating quarrel: “Rimbaud leant out of the window as
Verlaine was walking back from Camden market … and shouted a stream of abuse. Verlaine hit
Rimbaud with a fish he’d acquired in the market [and] fled to Brussels. Rimbaud, contrite,
immediately followed … Verlaine shot Rimbaud, wounding him … and went to prison for a
couple of years for that.”
—The Guardian

Though “mythic status” might sound meretricious,
Few are the homes where bards have wielded fishes—
An act which shows at least good, honest muscles,
Unlike the gun Verlaine deployed in Brussels.