by Erika Fine

Hey, Democrats, you’d better scrap
That slapped-together caucus app,
And while you’re trying things anew,
Please ditch the caucus concept too.
And why is Iowa the place
That’s first in line for every race?
I’m also totally perplexed
On why New Hampshire’s always next.
And why oh why do we denote
A Tuesday as the day to vote?
And why on earth must we succumb
Like clockwork, each quadrennium,
To people called “electors” who
We never know and never knew?
Democracy in our great land
Is often hard to understand.

by David Hedges

As Alan Dershowitz now says,
There is no law above the Prez.
King Donald, as he’ll soon be known,
Can flop upon his golden throne
And rule the universe by tweet
While toadies kneel and kiss his feet.
Once Moscow Mitch has scratched his itch,
He’ll strategize, without a glitch,
On possibilities for graft
And giving Democrats the shaft.

by Viveca Priestley

What brain infection can rewire us
to treat a power-hungry clown
as if he wears a golden crown?
It’s Washington’s corona virus.

by Julia Griffin

for Beth

“‘Extremely Obese’ Owl Rescued After Becoming Too Fat To Fly
The Suffolk Owl Sanctuary […]’s head falconer, Rufus Samkin, told the BBC that the area where the owl was found had been crawling with voles and mice due to a mild winter.
‘We think she’s just done incredibly well for herself and overindulged,’ he said.”
—The Huffington Post

The Owl and the Owlman were both at sea,
Though not in the self-same boat:
The Owlman (Rufus) was quite fat-free;
The Owl had a case of bloat.
The Owl looked up at the stars above
(She lay in a deepish ditch),
And sighed “Oh Rufus, oh Rufus my love,
That mouse was rather too rich,
Too rich,
Too rich;
That mouse was rather too rich.”

Rufus said to the Owl: “You inelegant fowl,
You’ve binged till you’re quite obese!
Come, look to your diet: it’s vain to deny it;
This gorging henceforth must cease.”
So he kept her away from her rodent buffet.
Who knows how the foodie felt?
But after a week with a monitored beak,
Her shape was slender and svelte
And svelte
And svelte:
Her shape was slender and svelte.

“Dear Owl, are you willing to limit your killing
To half?” Said the Owl, “I’ll try—“
And in token of proof, as a gesture to Rufus,
She shrugged as a bunny went by.
She dined on beans, and spinachy greens,
Which are rare in an owl’s milieu;
Then hand in hand on the Stonemarket Strand
She danced with Rufus à deux
À deux,
Adieu:
She danced with her Rufus à deux.

by Chris O’Carroll

“This wall is not something that can be really knocked down.”
—Donald Trump

“Portion of US border wall in California falls over in high winds and lands on Mexican side”
—CNN

We’re replacing the fence in Calexico
With a beautiful new border wall,
And we’re hoping the winds blow toward Mexico
If the new wall should happen to fall.

I am not really building much new wall
(Loud false claims are the name of my game).
Now that wind has made mine an askew wall,
My whole act looks like more of the same.

by Eddie Aderne

“Tate Britain has defended advertising for a head of coffee with a salary of nearly £40,000— more than the average wage of a London-based curator—after critics said the role highlights how low museum professionals’ wages are.”
—The Guardian

Tate Britain hosts a Roastery
Which (here I quote its boastery)
Is vibrant, innovative, and
Diverse. If you would understand
These epithets’ extent, they reign
Throughout the coffee value chain:
The Roasters champion all genders
Among their growers and their blenders.
The head of coffee role requires
Blending and roasting, per desires;
This innovative coffee space
Relies on you. You are its face.
While managing the bev’rage team,
You’re still responsible for cream,
And everything pertaining to
Each Tate (de-)caffeinated brew.
This vibrant business helps to fund
The Gallery, else moribund;
You might be quite surprised to learn
How much these not-for-profits earn.

by Nora Jay

“I went through a phase of carrying Camus and Sartre under my arm, thinking that would be irresistible.”
—Tracey Thorn, interviewed in The Guardian

I waited till Sartre linked arms with Camus:
Then I pounced, as you do:
Now we stroll round the Café de Flore, bras dessus
Bras dessous, bras dessous.

by James Hamby

The rule of law was nice,
But I guess it’s had its season—
It seems “high crimes” are now no vice.
(We used to call them “treason.”)

by Julia Griffin

“Court rules against woman charged after stepchildren saw her topless
Utah judge refuses to overturn lewdness measure in case of Tilli Buchanan, who removed her top while hanging drywall in her own home.”
—The Guardian

In Utah, women may be sued
On legal grounds of being lewd
When patching walls while semi-nude
If witnessed by their husbands’ brood.
Chaste meanings may be misconstrued;
It’s therefore prudent to conclude:
With DIY in Utah, you’d
Best not indulge in nuditude.

by Bruce Bennett

Once upon a horrid morning, while I pondered, sick and scorning,
How that monster still was squatting on our country and its lore—
Just before I turned the news on, well before I had my shoes on,
I had thoughts of something different, different from my thoughts before—
I was struck by some new hope, a hope I had not had before—
His conviction, yes, and more!

His removal, then his sentence: years in prison, stripped of Twitter.
He would pay for lies, corruption, graft, extortion, every deed
He’d connived in and kept hidden, every secret act forbidden,
His whole crooked lifetime public, brought to light, condemned with speed—
Law and order reestablished, acting now with force and speed—
Let him whine and moan and plead!

With that hope and now exalted, in the midst of hope I halted.
What if nothing came of what was now the only thing I craved?
What if he remains anointed? What if we are disappointed?
What if all of this proves fruitless that we’ve suffered for, and slaved?
What if he continues shameless, now unshackled, more depraved?
What if we can not be saved?

So, although I put my shoes on, I declined to turn the news on.
Better ignorance, I thought, than learning how Impeachment plays.
I will find out when the time comes if he’s guilty with his crime chums.
Meanwhile I will find some peace, and I will spend some pleasant days.
I will tell myself, Yes, really, we will have some pleasant days.
Really, this was just a phase.

by Julia Griffin

“Talk like an Egyptian: mummy’s voice heard 3,000 years after death
Researchers in UK recreate Nesyamun’s sound using 3D version of his vocal tract”
—The Guardian

What did a mummy sound like? Now we know.
A 3D version of one vocal tract
Is now available on audio.
You might expect it snufflesome and cracked,
A sort of prehistoric phonograph;
In fact the sound is clear and not that deep.
You can imagine how the corpse might laugh,
Or warble in his bath, or cough, or weep.
As for the words he utters, or the word:
There’s some dispute. It sounds a bit like “air,”
Or maybe “bare.” Or how would you construe
This fleeting, bleating syllable you heard?
The past lies still for all its heirs to bear.
What does the mummy say? That’s up to you.

by Dan Campion

“No, I don’t consider them very serious injuries, relative to other injuries I’ve seen.”
—Commander-in-Chief Donald Trump, on concussion symptoms reported by American troops after Iranian ballistic missile strikes on their base

Doc Don is quick with his decree;
Who needs a medical degree?
It’s just some headaches, he avers
(Not serious, like Doc’s bone spurs).

by Nora Jay

“Frozen iguanas forecast to shower south Florida as temperatures drop
[W]ildlife conservationists recommend not touching frozen iguanas, as they may thaw unexpectedly and feel threatened if a person comes close to them.”
—The Guardian

O Florida! In August, all bananas;
In January, gellified iguanas.
Floridians are primed to be accosted
This month by reptiles, keen to be defrosted;
Experts, however, warn against succumbing.
The temperature’s not harmful, only numbing,
And when iguanas’ blood once more is moving,
You’ll find their attitude needs some improving.
You’d think they might be wheezing out hosannas;
But gratitude is foreign to iguanas,
And what could be more irksome, in a blizzard,
Than being threatened by a chilly lizard?

by Randy Mazie

“Trump Removes Pollution Controls on Streams and Wetlands …
The new water rule for the first time in decades [will] allow landowners and property developers to dump pollutants such as pesticides and fertilizers directly into hundreds of thousands of waterways, and to destroy or fill in wetlands for construction projects.”
—The New York Times

Duck. Duck. Goose.
Chemicals on the loose.
Put them in our food supply.
Tighten up the noose.

Little Jack Coroner
inspects a pumpkin pie.
The lab results: carcinogens.
Jump. Skip. Die.

by Nora Jay

“The Mitchell County Animal Rescue in North Carolina posted an adoption ad on Facebook that introduced the world to Perdita, the ”World’s Worst Cat.’
‘We thought she was sick,’ the ad said. ‘Turns out she’s just a jerk.'”
—CNN

HOME WANTED for a piece of work:
A veritable feline jerk.
Believe she’s sick? Believe again:
She’s just a claw-deploying pain,
Whose one idea of a lark
Is spreading bitterness and dark.
She is not spayed, but never fear:
No other cat would dare come near;
She’s had her shots, but you know what?
You’ll quickly wish that she had not.
Likes: pricey foods (each one just once);
Emitting bored, sarcastic grunts;
Biting and scratching; raising welts.
Hates: pleasing anybody else;
Togetherness of any sort;
Affection; courtesy; in short
All kinds of human contact save
The kind that means an early grave.
With most adoptions, we prefer
A trial run, but not with her;
The bottom line: this toxic cat
Once yours is yours, and that is that.
This is the form, if you insist.
It names a vet, and exorcist.