“Facebook apologises for flagging Plymouth Hoe as offensive term” —The Guardian
Drake he’s in his hammock, or so his agents say,
(Capten, art thou trendin’ there below?)
No one’s goin’ to answer, though you mob the house all day
An’ try to get a quote on Plymouth Hoe:
Did they meet through Stormy? Did she work for Bill?
Was she friends with Paris, Kim, and co?
Were there bedsprings smashin’ with #passion?
But Drake his only comment is a legalistic No.
Drake he’s at his lawyer’s now, a-signin’ of his writs
(Capten, folk are talkin’ even so!)
Bein’ used to pirates, he is hirin’ Dershowitz,
Who charges even more than Plymouth Hoe:
Call him on his cell phone, call him over Zoom,
Call him on the newest apps you know;
Where the old trade’s flyin’, old Facebook’s spyin’,
And you’ll find him dumb and mute as any big-shot married beau.
“… Perhaps the most prominent of these noisy animals was Maurice, a rooster in Saint-Pierre-d’Oléron… His owner had been sued by neighbors—regular vacationers in the area—because he crowed too loudly. … In one of the more tragic cases, over 100,000 petitioners clamored for justice last year after Marcel, a rooster in Ardèche… was shot and beaten to death by a neighbor infuriated by its crowing.”
—The New York Times
Let’s hear it for Maurice,
Who galled some with his crow.
They could not make him cease,
That bold—and loud—Maurice.
Although he’s now at peace,
The world at large should know:
French Law supports Maurice,
That rude bird with his crow,
Which did not help Marcel,
Poor martyr who was shot
And beaten. Oh, too well
They silenced you, Marcel.
What story does that tell?
Some luck out, some do not.
Luck did not help Marcel,
Poor martyr who got shot.
The moral? Cocks will crow,
And some of them will thrive.
The lucky ones will go
On crowing as they crow,
And all the world will know!
The rest won’t stay alive.
The moral? Cocks will crow,
Yet only some will thrive.
“On Tuesday, former pitcher Curt Schilling narrowly missed out on being voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame, a snub he suggested was about the voters—the Baseball Writers Association of America—being opposed to his personal conservative politics and past controversial statements.” —CNN
In the latest Hall of Fame vote,
Schill’s just shy of getting in:
I’ll salute this trumpish hurler
With my smallest violin.
Big fan of the Toxic Tribble,
Cool with 1/6 mutiny,
Curt and his ideas have fallen
Under hostile scrutiny.
Number 38’s complaining:
“Lefty writers! It’s a fix!
They can’t take my patriotic
Brand of hardball politics!”
Truth is, Curtis, as you righties
Have observed for many years:
Values matter. Your exclusion
Won’t bring me (for one) to tears.
Britannia does not rule the waves these days. Raj India’s been gone near eighty years. And Brexit has left Brits in deep malaise. However, they take solace in their beers! Much Tory talk of taking back control, Securing major trade deals planet-wide And winning big has scored a huge own goal— No wonder Brits carouse till bleary-eyed! Diminished greatness sobers no one’s brain: League tables show that Britons now are low In world prestige. They drink to ease their pain: Scotch numbs the shock of letting status go … Zonked Brits, though, top their league—in their blue funk, The Brits are Number One at getting drunk!
The crowd goes gaga for the anthem;
Pledge, oaths, hymns, verse, prayers enchant them,
As do flags, fanfares, Joe’s speech—
And not one false note hints, “Impeach”!
“Coronavirus: Joe Biden signs executive actions aimed at ending pandemic —The Guardian
Let’s put these four years of promiscuous harm
Where yesterday’s horrors are put,
For now we may hope for a shot in the arm
Instead of a shot in the foot.
The button’s been evicted from
The Oval Office desk!
No, not the one to shroud the world
In radioactive smoke,
But something far less sinister,
Though laughably grotesque—
The one that Donald Trump would push
To summon Diet Coke.
“Jane has never met [MyPillow founder] Mr. Lindell. She is not and has never been in any relationship with him, romantic or otherwise. She is, however, in full-fledged fantasy relationships with Brad Pitt, Rege-Jean Page and Kermit the Frog and welcomes any and all coverage on those.” —Jane Krakowski representative denying a Daily Mail story.
Mike’s a fan of Donald Trump.
Jane hangs out with Tina Fey.
What could gossip junkies make
Of their rumored pillow-play?
Hipster wokester lefties wailed
A bewildered whatthefowski!
Picturing the crackhead pillow
Squeezer squeezing Ms. Krakowski.
Heaven’s groupies on the right
Scorned a starlet bound for Hell
As unfit to pillow down
With God’s servant Mike Lindell.
Turns out we can all relax.
Jane’s word gives us cause to smile.
She and Mike have never met.
She’s more into froggy style.
“Giant worm’s undersea lair discovered by fossil hunters in Taiwan Scientists believe 2-metre-long burrow once housed predator that ambushed passing sea creatures” —The Guardian
Passing creatures of the sea,
Lend your inward ears to me!
Shelled or scaly, be aware
Of a deep, subsaline lair,
Where no flounder dare set fin,
Where no eel will slough its skin,
Where no squid elects to squirm,
Where awaits the GIANT WORM.
Ocean creatures, as you pass
Over this concealed crevasse,
Summon all your squamous skills:
Block your blow-holes, guard your gills,
Keep a close parental eye
On your small and tasty fry!
Nets grow loose and hooks unfirm;
Nothing worsts the GIANT WORM.
An iPhone tweets. A giant safety pin Secures a nappy bigly round a rump. Lips snarl in anger through an orange skin: It’s London’s famous blimp of Baby Trump! Museum owners bought it to deflate, Perhaps because—well, who’s had no such urge?— And stuffed it in a suitcase to curate, So history does not forget the scourge … Across the Pond, at dawn Trump flew the coop Because he could not face his loss with grace. Limp like his blimp, he skulked off to regroup In Mar-a-Lago’s self-affirming space, Made mute as well as squashed—and all Joe’s mates Pray daily that Trump never reinflates!
