“Cats is said to be so ‘shockingly bad’ that it’s prompting walkouts from cinemagoers.” —The Independent
Terrible Cats came out this week:
Terrible Cats have raised a squall.
Every cat has a weird physique;
Every cat makes your skin to crawl:
Cinema buffs can hardly speak;
Cinema critics are having a ball.
Old Deuteronomy’s wearing her fur:
It looks like a rug, more than something she grew;
Around it (creating a bit of a stir)
She’s wearing the pelts of ten other cats too.
The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious cat,
But there isn’t any need for me to scream it:
For he’s got fur but it’s not fur,
And let’s hope we never have to dream it.
What’s happened to Mr. Mistoffelees,
The Original Conjuring Cat?
His badger-in-lipstick look’s awful—he’s
Not magic enough to fix that.
Macavity the Mystery Cat
Is looking very raw:
That fur-cut’s simply criminal—
It’s really more a gnaw;
They’re baffled up at Scotland Yard:
There’s something nasty, yeah;
But if you know your Cats, you’ll know
Macavity’s not there.
Memory! Turn your face to the exit;
Just remember the good times—bid them sadly goodbye:
If you touch these, you’ll understand what none of us knows:
What’s the feel of CGI?
The Democrats are feeling smug and cozy.
The gavel’s down at last! Calloo, callay!
“He’ll be impeached forever,” quoth Pelosi.
It’s certainly felt that way.
The clown car appears to be stuck in reverse,
And Ringmaster Donald can’t think what to do
But tweet hissy fits and relentlessly curse
As bozos bail out — oh, and call it a coup.
Ivanka, aloft in her glittering tights,
Sails on through thin air with the greatest of ease,
Expanding her graft to incomparable heights
By putting the squeeze on the well-heeled Chinese.
Don’s son-in-law, Jared, loan-juggler supreme,
Plays footsie with Salman, the Saudi crown prince,
And kowtows to Putin’s despotic regime
As qualified diplomats grimace and wince.
Rudolfo, the screwball Ukrainian freak,
Reprises the guiles in his vast repertoire,
A sideshow replete with the president’s clique
Of bootlicking sycophants, starring Bill Barr.
While Mitch cracks his whip in the off-center ring,
Republicans circle, performing their rounds,
Attached, trunk to tail, in an unbroken string,
Unable to utter articulate sounds.
Don Junior and Eric spout off on talk shows —
Imperious ham-handed rich little kids
Defending dear Daddy, whose nose grows and grows,
With plenteous pro quos and copious quids.
“Prominent lawyer Jolyon Maugham clubs fox to death while wearing kimono.” —The Guardian
A prominent lawyer named Jolyon Maugham
Has recently kicked up a media storm
By killing a fox. Was he dressed for it? O no:
Instead of buff breeches, he wore a kimono—
A skimpy affair that a geisha might shed,
Ill suited for knocking a fox on the head.
He tweeted these details to all on his feed,
In hopes of applause, which were punctured with speed;
The animal activists raged for the fox,
While satirists offered sartorial mocks:
Top law-men in lingerie fashioned for belles
Should not bash a fox! (Or do anything else.)
“Donald Trump Jr. kills rare endangered sheep in Mongolia with special permit.” —The Guardian
Mongolia’s a wondrous place, and getting there’s not cheap,
But once you’ve done it, fancy! You can kill endangered sheep.
The name for them is “Argali.” They’ve quite stupendous horns,
And fleece which (once removed) will soothe the toughest hunter’s corns.
To slaughter this alarming beast you’ll need, of course, a gun,
A permit, and some proof that you’re a global leader’s son.
Equipped with these, come, blast away! By now you will have figured
That sheep, like other snowy types, are effortlessly triggered,
And soon you’ll have its lifeless head to hang up like a hood.
It may not look its very best, but you’ll look really good.
Ever since Cherry Tree George beat the drum,
The president’s role’s been considered a plum.
The prez gets to stand in the limelight, nice guy,
Top Banana, the apple of everyone’s eye.
He may earn the raspberries pundits confer,
But isn’t the type sour grapes will deter.
He won’t give a fig for their critical views,
Which he can succinctly dismiss as “fake news.”
But if it’s a lemon who’s taken the oath,
Let Congress impeach him (that’s pruning for growth).
“Ghislaine Maxwell is the woman at the center of the Jeffrey Epstein scandal. She’s not been seen in months” —CNN
O what has become of the Lady Ghislaine?
She’s vanished with never a trace, or a stain.
Have journalists driven her over the edge,
That billionaire belle with the name that means “pledge”?
A rumor is running (you know how they are)
That Lady Ghislaine’s gone the way of her Pa,
Who somehow contrived the most tragic of stunts:
Fell overboard, drowned, and was fished out at once
And recognized—settling thereby the hash
Of those he had owed an abundance of cash.
His enemies suffered quite genuine pain
When Maxwell was lost from the Lady Ghislaine—
For this was the name of both daughter and boat.
In any Ghis-contest, the boat gets my vote:
Both sailed in deep water, more flashy than sure;
But human Ghislaine sank the young and the poor.
O Lady Ghislaine, there are rumors at large:
There’s talk of subpoenas, and even a charge …
Though optimists swear we will see you again,
I’ll wait for your funeral, Lady Ghislaine.
“The Apostrophe Protection Society has closed, because ‘ignorance has won.’“
—The Oldie
“Grocer’s apostrophe [in British English]: NOUN an apostrophe placed before
a final s intended to indicate the plural but in fact forming the possessive.”
—Collins Dictionary
The protectors, it seems, have begun a retreat, The sticklers withdrawn to their lairs.
How sad it must be thus to suffer defeat By the sellers of apple’s and pear’s.
“Mr. Hunter, a Republican congressman known for his hard-line views
and early support for President Trump, pleaded guilty on Tuesday…
to conspiracy to steal campaign funds.” —The New York Times
Duncan Hunter pleaded guilty,
though he said it was his wife
who took care of their finances,
since he has a busy life.
“Lovestruck pig pursues TV reporter live on air” —CNN
He’s nothing to make a big deal about.
There’s lots of good boars in the shed!
He grunts even though there’s no meal about.
His bristles are all on his head.
He walks on two hooves—there’s no tellin’ him.
His snout is too snub for the pail.
My friends have no clue what I smell in him:
Who knows what he’s done with his tail?
He eats with his feet. He’s too tall for me.
His ears are mere slits. He likes ham;
O Lazos, you’re no good at all for me—
Poor, pitiful pig that I am!
