“Joe Biden confuses Gaza with Ukraine in airdrop announcement” —The Guardian
Life can’t be easy in the highest sphere.
The Presidency’s not a sinecure,
(Though Air Force One is comfortable, I hear,
And White House life has some distinct allure—
At least from what I gathered on the tour);
My point, however, is the stress and strain,
Which sometimes leads to slips one might deplore:
Like meaning “Gaza” when one says “Ukraine.”
When these occur, the other side will jeer,
And journalists act snide or faux-demure,
While chosen spokesters struggle to appear
Delighted to take questions from the floor,
And wholly unafraid of an encore.
The President, they’ll stonily explain,
Is weary; it is obvious, therefore,
We should think “Gaza” when we hear “Ukraine.”
There still remains three-quarters of a year
Before we’re in that polling booth once more,
Drawn, maybe, less by eagerness than fear;
When the alternative’s a vicious boor,
Bully, and fraud, with debts and writs galore—
Someone whose rightful domicile’s a drain—
Let’s pray the public’s able to endure
One who for “Gaza” sometimes says “Ukraine.”
ENVOI
Oh, Mr. President! Your heart is pure
(Or more or less): you’re decent and humane;
I’ll vote for you, but God! Would I were sure
You don’t mean “Gaza” when you say “Ukraine.”
“The Woolly mammoth could be brought back from extinction in just four years” —Metro
But wouldn’t global warming be a problem?
Perhaps not in the very early years,
But once they’re fully grown and really shaggy,
The vet’ll need a massive pair of shears.
“Fury after Exxon chief says public to blame for climate failures [:]
Darren Woods tells Fortune consumers not willing to pay for clean-energy transition…” —The Guardian
You cheapskates never understood:
Big Oil did everything we could.
You surely didn’t think, I trust,
We’d take a chance on going bust
By making one less dollar here—
No, that’s a far more pressing fear
Among the C-suite types like me
Than climate instability.
Consumers have to take the blame
Since Exxon is immune to shame;
You wouldn’t do your part, so now
The seas keep heating up (and how),
Destroying reefs and fish in schools—
How do you sleep, you greedy fools?
“A University of Aberdeen team found a section of DNA which ‘switches’ on key genes in parts of the brain that affect anxiety levels in mice. They found removal of the ‘switch’ increased anxiety in the animals.” —PA Media
If I had woken up today
To find they’d swiped some DNA
I too, I think, would likely see
An increase in anxiety.
Did Spinosaurus swim, or not?
The experts don’t agree.
Their backs are up. Their discord’s hot,
As “prickly” as can be.
I only know, were I a fish
Sometime in the Cretaceous,
It would have been my fondest wish
To dodge its jaws predaceous.
“Tube of Ancient Red Lipstick Unearthed in Iran… The lipstick dates to between 1936 and 1687 B.C.E.,
according to a study … [A]nalysis revealed that the powder is made of hematite…, manganite, braunite, galena,
anglesite and plant-based waxes. This mixture… ‘bears a striking resemblance to the recipes of contemporary
lipsticks.’ … While researchers now know more about the vial’s contents, its owner remains mysterious.” —Smithsonian
A thousand years and more before great Cyrus,
Beauties in Persia murmured: “Come admire us!”
And, seeking something sensuous yet zippy,
They summoned forth the world’s first scarlet lippy.
Cyrus was born and died. His Empire followed;
Conqueror Alexander’s soon was swallowed
By Rome’s. It fell. So, later, did the British.
Now, with America on top, this skittish
Adornment is unearthed, and how we prize it!
Solemn researchers rush to analyze it,
And find therein, through their exacting praxis,
Galena, anglesite, and plant-based waxes.
“How like,” they cry, “how curiously similar
The wares today of Revlon and of Rimmel are!”—
And all experience the reassurance
Evoked by tokens of our own endurance.
Still, there’s a warning, too, that time’s dispensing
For those today whose trade is influencing:
Those Persian belles: we know their lips were glowing,
But who they were, we have no way of knowing.
When a benefit’s bestowed
Fair returns are always owed:
We should thank him for the favors that he did,
Grant his plea, allow a stay,
Help his efforts to delay.
Every quo should have some corresponding quid.
If we violate this norm,
We shall summon up a storm.
He will know we knew what actions he’d forbid.
He’ll annul the Constitution
To exact his retribution,
For each quo must always have its proper quid.
“The Eurasian eagle owl named Flaco, which escaped New York City’s Central Park Zoo last year, has died after crashing into a building in Manhattan… [Some] speculate that the bird was in search of love whenever he ventured away from Central Park.” —The Guardian
It’s news to make New Yorkers choke:
Their owl’s disastrous fall;
He soared in search of love, and broke.
Oh, Flaco! Don’t we all?
“A man sues Powerball after being told his $340M ‘win’ was a mistake” —NPR
Oops, sorry. What you saw online
Was just a typo, Mr. Cheeks.
Forget the El Dorado mine
That every ticket buyer seeks.
The world works this way. AI too.
What’s shown on-screen is often wrong.
As Plato said, what humans view
Is shadows. We’re all strung along.
So, John, please know, you’re not alone.
By all means, sue, and press your plea.
But if they don’t pay, laugh, don’t groan.
That’s how to win the lottery.
“Six months after the devastating wildfire that consumed much of Lahaina, the landmark banyan tree shows signs of recovery…” —The Honolulu Star-Advertiser
Prominent, eminent,
beautiful banyan tree,
symbol of hope amid
ashes and grief,
issuing oxygen
photosynthetically,
are you exhaling a
sigh of re-leaf?
A cat was cute sometime this week.
A timid child began to speak.
A widow found a grateful pet.
A pauper learned an old barrette
Was actually a rare antique.
Though Congress seems a broken clique,
And globally the outlook’s bleak,
Somewhere not far from you, I’ll bet,
A cat was cute.
It’s true that Donald popped his beak,
In his accustomed state of pique,
And called himself Navalny—yet
Remember: on the Internet,
A cat was cute.
