by Patrick Biggs
“Mittens, the Cat of Wellington, is a Turkish Angora famous for his wanderings around New Zealand’s capital. He is known to visit shops, churches, universities, restaurants, bars, hotels, and people’s homes. His adventures are documented by his thousands of fans on social media. Recently, he was detained by Wellington police after being spotted dangerously crossing the road by the city’s library. He was later released without charge.”
—NZ Herald
New Zealand’s justice system, it disheartens me to say,
Absolves too many criminals, permitting crime to pay.
Though trivial delinquents should of course be spared the joint,
Regrettably a recent matter illustrates my point.
They’d Mittens in their clutches and they let the felon out,
Despite the bleak skulduggery we know that cat’s about.
They merely took his details down: aged nine, of Turkish ilk,
Exhibiting a ginger coat as velvety as silk.
They’d Mittens in their custody and let him out the door.
He only jaywalked? Au contraire, his crimes are manyscore.
He’s plundered every shop in town, he’s broken into homes—
No place is safe from trespass for as long as Mittens roams.
They’d Mittens in detention and unwisely let him go.
You might have seen him at the church but, trust me, it’s for show.
More often he’s frequenting bars and running from the bill.
A mouse I spoke to hinted that his deeds are darker still.
by Orel Protopopescu
“As billionaires compete for art in an overheated market, the merely affluent are giving up.”
—The New York Times
Are you a middling millionaire?
Alas, you’ll leave no dent
in Christie’s catalog for one
percent of one percent.
Crave a furless, ferrous rabbit?
A Hockney of your own?
Don’t bother calling Sotheby’s.
They won’t pick up the phone.
Poor merely wealthy souls! It hurts
to think you’ve won, then lose
the chance to snuggle up with Koons’s
cute, metallic muse.
Why risk your dollars on a budding
Van Gogh or Miró?
They may be hot at auctions now,
but their returns were slow.
by Julia Griffin
“With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted one and all”
—Tennyson, “Mariana in the Moated Grange”
“Man makes deepest-ever dive in Mariana Trench and discovers … litter”
—The Guardian
Within the Mariana Trench
Minute crustaceans flitter,
And maybe some spelunking tench
Will wave to our transmitter—
We thought. But now we find (a wrench
So wretched and so bitter!)
There’s trash beneath the ocean’s drench
To make a demon titter.
The divers’ teeth are all a-clench:
There’s crud in every critter;
The very corals seem to blench.
Who is the benefiter?
The judge is sleeping on the bench;
The President’s on Twitter,
As Mariana’s Moated Trench
Explodes with loathsome litter.
by Gail White
“[Florida] woman whips gator out of her pants when cops ask if she has ‘anything else’ on her.”
—RawStory
When you’ve explored the local lakes
To swipe some turtles, frogs or snakes,
And as you leave—abysmal luck!—
The cops arrive and stop your truck,
Unearth your loot and bag the lot,
And ask you if that’s all you’ve got:
Don’t leave protection up to chance—
Keep a gator in your pants.
A foot-long gator makes a nice
Female security device.
Just make sure you win his trust
Before you hide him in your bust.
Or ward off sexual attacks
By taping him inside your slacks;
Before the villain can advance—
Whip that gator from your pants.
by Julia Griffin
“HBO Admits ‘Latte’ in Last Night’s ‘Game of Thrones’ Was ‘a Mistake’”
—The Wrap
It landed like a direwolf strike,
That latte famed of yore,
And Hound and Worm devoured it like
A pail of dragon’s gore.
The Mountain shrank, the Walkers ran,
The Starks went raving mad,
And lots of characters began
To rue their arcs so bad;
For ’twas the star that bucked the trend,
This shot of fat-free foam:
It brought King’s Landing to its end.
Go, wargs! Now please go home.
by Dan Campion
“You always wanted to show losses for tax purposes… it was sport.”
—The President, in a tweet
Ah, Sport, that realm where points get shaved
And calls get blown and rules get waived,
Where refs might not catch sight of fouls,
An umpire blinks, a dugout howls,
Some footballs magically deflate
Like fortunes at the Watergate,
And if you’re good at flop and bluff
You learn to get away with stuff—
Yes, Sport turns Losses into Wins
And subs “tax purposes” for “sins.”
by Ruth S. Baker
“Country House wins Kentucky Derby after Maximum Security disqualified in stunner”
—The Guardian
The horse that lost the Derby
This year at Churchill Downs
Made prematurely blurby
Announcers look like clowns.
He put his best foot forward,
That horse (let’s call him Max),
But also sideways—nor would
He keep within his tracks.
O many was the dollar
Involved in his defeat!
The President, in choler,
Deplored it with a tweet;
All cyberspace is booing:
The case looks set for years
With suing, counter-suing,
And millionaires in tears.
Max keeps his feelings hidden,
But, at a guess, he’d say:
I crossed a line, as bidden.
Barn! Sunlight! Gallop! Hay!
Let’s hope he’s somewhere herby—
No crowds nor Triple Crowns—
The Horse that Lost the Derby
This year at Churchill Downs.
by Bruce Bennett
Barr did what lawyers do.
Hey, what’s the f***ing deal?
It’s what we always knew.
Collusion wasn’t real.
So be our guests. Impeach.
Go at it, and enjoy!
He’ll stay beyond your reach.
The AG? He’s Our Boy!
by Nora Jay
“‘The NRA is in grave danger’: group’s troubles are blow to Trump’s 2020 bid”
—The Guardian
Wayne LaPierre is not in danger.
Trump’s campaign is fine.
There’s no situation-changer.
Don’t be spun a line.
Never mind how many students
End up being shot.
Will they change the jurisprudence?
Obviously not.
Though it’s bright inside our bubbles,
Life outside is grey.
Do not trust the so-called troubles
Of the NRA.
by Julia Griffin
“Prince Harry and Meghan Markle Have Big Post-Baby Plans for Frogmore Cottage”
—The Observer
Each day we’re agog more—
All Twitter’s been beggin’:
What tidings from Frogmore
Of Harry and Meghan?
He’s heading the dad poll,
Her smile is high wattage:
All hail the new Tadpole
Of Frogmore-than-Cottage!
by Edmund Conti
“At that point, it was my baby.”—William Barr, on the Mueller report
Yes sir, that’s my baby
Congress, don’t mean maybe
Yes sir, that’s my baby now
Yes, ma’am, we’ve decided
Kamala, I’m gonna hide it
Yes, ma’m, you’ve been slighted now
By the way, by the way
When I go to Congress I’ll say
Yes sir, you don’t need it
No sir, you can’t read it
Yes sir, that’s my baby now
By the way, by the way
When you call me back I’ll still say
Yes sir, that’s my baby
No sir, I don’t mean maybe
Yes sir, that’s my baby now
by Julia Griffin
“After audience with the sun goddess, Japan’s emperor Akihito prepares to abdicate”
—The Guardian
What did the Emperor say to the Sun Goddess?
No one else heard him so no one can tell;
No one else knows what ineffable languages
Passed in the grove as the long shadows fell.
All that we know is the words he expressed to us,
Standing before the Chrysanthemum Throne:
Prayers for a future serene and illustrious;
Prayers for us all, not one nation alone.
May we be granted a way to be happier;
May there be deities wishing us well!
What did the Sun Goddess say to the Emperor?
No one else heard her, so no one can tell.
by Bruce Bennett
“Motorcycle 101: New College Course Offers Students The ‘Ride Of Their Lives’ … Second-semester college students at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee now have a new favorite class to consider just in time for the start of summer: Harley-Davidson Riding Academy.'”
—PR Newswire
Shakespeare’s out!
Harley’s in!
Who can wait
to begin?
Rev that ride!
Gun that hog!
Trash them books!
Grab that grog!
by Ruth S. Baker
“The Indian army says it has discovered footprints in the Himalayas that appear to belong to a yeti, known in the United States as bigfoot or the abominable snowman.”
—NBC News
Though conscious their chances were slim,
An Army went out on a limb
And tracked a great Snowman
When formerly no man
Had captured clear traces of him.
Assumptions are all very well:
For all these bold soldiers could tell
This big hairy Yeti
Was actually Beti:
The Bombshell Abominabelle.
by Orel Protopopescu
“[Led] by parents of children with dyslexia, a learning disability that makes reading and spelling difficult, some states are trying to change how reading is taught.”
—PBS.org
Who knew that what my mother taught in nineteen fifty-two,
at P.S. 48 in Queens, would rise again, brand new?
In Eisenhower’s day, it seems, a teacher knew what worked,
not swayed by sexy theories, no matter how they twerked.
But then troops of constructivists invaded academe.
Fresh hordes of college graduates made little children scream.
Whole language was a mouthful baby teeth could barely chew,
along with other chunks of junk, now ripe for a redo.
The “writing process” method is a hit in seminars.
But kids like writing fantasy, not premature memoirs.
And while we are undoing bad ideas that drown the good,
let’s bring back fifties tax rates and give thanks to Robin Hood!
What’s next? Clean air and water? Can we manage toxic waste,
restore the thing called justice and, dare we dream, good taste?
