Farewell to the scion—or scioness—
of metrical verse, to that lioness
whose wry, entertaining admonishment
waylaid us in gales of astonishment,
that mischievous, marvelous polyphone
whose deathless bons mots touched our funny bone.
*Beloved Light contributor Mae Scanlan left us on Feb. 5.
Our winter/spring issue, out soon, will include more on
Mae’s inspiring (and inspired) life.
“Join us in February for our fourth annual Snowdrop Festival—where you can visit gardens teeming with one of the earliest flowering plants of the year.” —National Gardens Scheme website
The cold rain teeming down for hours Blots out those pale blooms’ clusters,
The forecast stuck at blustery showers Relieved by showery blusters.
Don’t urge us out before it’s dry! Until there’s really no drops,
Best stay indoors and warm, not try To see some sodden snowdrops!
“Billionaire and likely presidential hopeful Howard Schultz doesn’t want people calling him a ‘billionaire’: … At a book event on Monday, Schultz swapped out the word for the term ‘people of means.’ … ‘All I’m trying to do is one thing: walk in the shoes of the American people,’ he said.”
—Business Insider
Now Mr. H. Schultz is as rich as a czar:
With so many bucks he’s a qualified star;
But all his desire—it’s a strange thing to choose—
Is trying to walk in his countrymen’s shoes.
He’s loaded with money—that’s not in dispute;
The proper descriptor, we’re learning, is moot,
But “person of means” is the one he will use:
Just one of the people, who walks in their shoes.
Of course Mr. Schultz can provide in a lump
The billions required to campaign against Trump,
And thus make the Democrats likely to lose,
While he is out walking in popular shoes.
The people are patient: they watch and don’t rage
As tax-dodgers sit on the minimum wage;
But one thing let’s hope they’ll be slow to excuse
Is Mr. H. Schultz taking walks in their shoes.
“Emergency services are currently dealing with a single vehicle [collision] on the A381 by the South Milton turn where a car has overturned. The driver stated he swerved to avoid an octopus. He is currently in custody on suspicion of drug driving.” —Kingsbridge Police Report
He thought he saw an octopus
Reposing on the road;
He looked again, but not before
He’d too abruptly slowed,
And consequently overturned
And breached the Highway Code.
He thought he saw a kangaroo
Reciting from a text;
He looked again, and found it was
A judge, distinctly vexed,
Who sentenced him to kick the drugs
And change his glasses. Next!
“‘It’s a Beatle haircut’: historian claims 15th-century portrait is from the 1960s: National Gallery’s 1450 portrait by Rogier van der Weyden was created in the 1960s by Eric Hebborn, says art historian.” —The Guardian
Imagine there’s no fraudsters:
It’s easy if you try;
No crooked sales or hoardsters,
Compelled to sell or buy;
Imagine giving painters
What collectors pay … a …ay
Perhaps some dealer-reamer Just thought he’d have some fun; You may say he’s a schemer, But he’s not the only one.
Imagine I’m a Beatle:
I’ve got a ’60s do;
This scroll is no decretal,
Just songs From Me To You;
Imagine giving paintings
Credit just per se … a …ay
Suppose I’m by a lemur: I’d still be nicely done; You may say “art blasphemer!” But I’m not the only one.
“Karl Marx’s London grave vandalised in suspected hammer attack” —The Guardian
Ye workers of the world, unite
To put this wrongful ruin right:
Exploited proletarians,
Condemn the guilty hooligans,
Then call, as swiftly as may be,
Your friends among the bourgeoisie,
Who may indeed corroborate
Society’s existing state,
But when it comes to monuments
Will spare no effort or expense.
“Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come.” — Matt Groening
For you I’ll race my snowmobile And take the risk that it may heel Until it tips, and when it flips I’ll end up as a weasel meal.
“A discussion panel at the Davos World Economic Forum has become a sensation after a Dutch historian took billionaires to task for not paying taxes.”—The Guardian
As Davos’ billionaires began
To scratch each other’s backs,
A strange, farouche historian
Leapt up and shouted tax.
“You do not pay enough!” he cried;
A slogan which forthwith
The massed philanthropists denied
As economic myth.
“Pray look around,” they urged him, stunned:
“Behold how much we give!
Our institute! Our special fund!
Our youth initiative!
“We’ve founded schools! Created jobs!
Just read this dossier!”
The ingrate answered, through their sobs:
“Don’t give before you pay.
“Tax, tax, and tax! No more BS!”
This unrefined refrain
Has guaranteed, as you may guess,
He’ll not be asked again,
Until he’s learned that truth the poor
Are so unapt to learn: You cannot get a tax break for An IRS return.
“A farmer who became too upset when taking his lambs to the abattoir gave his flock to an animal sanctuary.”—BBC
Dear lambs, who skip on soft new sward And race up grassy hummocks,
The feelings that such sights afford Leave many in a flummox
As each spring strikes the same old chord In human souls . . . and stomachs.