by Chris O’Carroll
I’ve got your 14th Amendment right here.
I’m taking your birthright away.
Executive orders can do that this year,
Many top legal scholars now say.
I’ll bag one Amendment then hunt down some more
I can fix, if you know what I mean.
I know Kanye loves me, but all’s fair in war—
I’m taking a look at 13.
by Julia Griffin
“Tokyo garden loses fortune because ticket seller was scared to charge foreigners:
Man let about 160,000 tourists into Shinjuku Gyoen garden rather than risk
being yelled at for not understanding them.”—The Guardian
The tourists in the garden
Harden and grow cold.
I’m jumpy as a cricket:
The tickets are unsold;
I don’t feel bold;
I squeak, “I beg your pardon…”
They’re angry, loud freeloaders
With sodas. It’s the end;
Municipal grim reapers,
That’s keepers, will descend;
And soon, my friend,
There’ll be some evil odors.
It should be gratifying
Supplying what one sells;
But stress is always mounting,
Counting each coin or else
Those dreadful yells!
I’m trying, Gyo-en, trying
And not expecting pardon,
Barred and de-pensioned too;
But is it such a wonder
Blunders occur—have you
Not once let through
A tourist in the garden?
by Barbara Loots
“Stolen in Kansas City: 10-foot-long inflatable
model of human colon.”—Kansas City Star
The back of the pick-up is empty. It’s gone.
An item that no one can peddle or pawn.
So what is this whimsical crook going to do
With a pink plastic colon a crowd can pass through?
This news is alarming and hard to digest.
How soon will the culprit be under arrest?
Oh please, let no innocents get blown apart
By the criminal use of the world’s biggest fart!
by Michael Calvert
“President Donald Trump and Sen. Ted Cruz (R-Texas) were all smiles during a rally in Houston … appearing to move past their history of name-calling and condemnation.”—HuffPost
Hello, Houston! I thought I’d pass
This way so Ted can kiss my ass,
And fawn, and sing my praises loud
In front of an adoring crowd.
I called his wife a dog, it’s true—
‘Cause that’s the kind of thing I do,
But you can see the dog’s not her.
It’s Ted who is the cringing cur.
by Ruth S. Baker
“China’s latest internet trend, the xuanfu tiaozhan, or “flaunt your wealth challenge.”
Also known as the “falling stars” challenge, the trend involves participants posting photos of themselves face down with their possessions scattered around them, after apparently having fallen down a flight of stairs or out of a sports car.”—The Guardian
So this is me, face down in Paris, France,
With Rolex watch and Donna Karan pants:
They’re Ray-Bans by my head,
And round them, nicely spread,
Address cards from top names in high finance.
The Lamborghini out of which I fell
Is also in the picture, LOL:
At 3.4K views,
I’m a star in Jimmy Choos,
With a compound-fractured pelvis by Chanel.
by Chris O’Carroll
The dead writer story they made up today
Is better than yesterday’s story, and way
Better than claiming the guy didn’t die,
Which sounded as lame as a lie Trump might try.
by Julia Griffin
“The price of mince would go up 50% in the event of no Brexit deal, the meat industry has warned.”—The Guardian
I’m reassessing Brexit since
I heard about the price of mince.
What is it builds the British soul
But burgers and spaghetti bol,
Lasagna bake and shepherd’s pie?
Without these things our hearts run dry;
Must we resort to pig or horse
To bolster our tomato sauce?
The nation runs, we must avow,
On cheap supplies of shredded cow:
Let’s not mince words!—though, with no deal,
They soon may be our only meal.
by Dan Campion
“In essence, this structure appears to act as a kind of editor….”—Jon Hamilton in “The Underestimated Cerebellum Gains New Respect From Brain Scientists” on NPR
We’ve thought there’s no homunculus
Inside our brains, for ages;
Who’d guess there was, to edit us,
A reader of our pages,
A “little brain,” there, after all,
A sharp blue pencil genie,
To coddle, coax, correct, and call
To buy us a martini?
by Marshall Cobb
“McRib is back for a limited time.”—McDonald’s
If you’re a fan of food that’s faux
I know just where you ought to go.
It comes around but once a year
And now they say that time is here.
McRib is back, but not to stay.
Who knows when it will go away?
So get your slab of meat that’s mystery,
But hurry up before it’s history.
by Julia Griffin
“An image of Edmond de Belamy, created by a computer, has just been sold at Christie’s.”—
The Guardian
M. de Belamy, your lost,
Caliginous, unpupilled eyes
Peer from a square of gilt embossed
As from a carnival disguise.
Edmond! What is it that you seek?
Your stare is endless. Some have said
You staked your spirit at bézique;
Some say, in fact, that you are dead:
That what these gilded bars enshrine
Is nothing but an empty case.
Still others call you Frankenstein;
And some, behind your haunted face
Detect the sadness of AI:
Which could not live, so cannot die.
by Dan Campion
“Electrons are extremely round.”—Live Science
They might have been shaped like a pear
Or Aphrodite’s derrière
Or like a pharoah’s pyramid
Or slick night-crawling annelid.
They could have been shaped like a book
Or like a Dalí chess-set rook
Or like a bobble-headed doll
Or like your cocker spaniel.
Our sages, though, once more astound:
Electrons are extremely round.
by Chris O’Carroll
“To murder and chop up a guy from the press?
That’s my kind of statecraft,” Trump has to confess.
“I swoon for a prince when he’s ruthless enough.
For now, though, I’ll act disapproving and tough.”
by Bruce Bennett
“Sesame Street’s Big Bird puppeteer retires.”—BBC News
Big Bird, Big Bird,
where will you go?
You’re not a snowbird.
There’s no snow.
There’s just a world
that’s cold and gray.
Big Bird, Big Bird
is gone today.
by Barbara Loots
The catalog of paper dolls,
and children’s Christmas wishes,
of shoes and ships and sealing wax,
appliances and dishes,
of bicycles and training bras,
red sweaters and plaid frocks,
of power tools and winter coats
and kindergarten blocks,
encyclopedia of dreams,
the hope of everything
an order form might conjure
and the postal service bring
already was forever lost—
and now the store is gone,
another victim in a world
enslaved by amazon.
by Julia Griffin
“PG Wodehouse fans delighted at plans for Westminster Abbey tribute:
Ben Schott, author of a new Jeeves and Wooster novel, reported ‘a ripple of joy’ at the Wodehouse Society dinner when the tribute was announced.”—The Guardian
“Dashed bally decent of those Abbey chaps”
Sprang first to mind; good cheer to men, in sum.
Later, sustained by half a snort perhaps,
The Wooster brain grew pensive. Rather rum
That, of one’s pals, not even Stiffy Byng
Knew of this knees-up? When a chap perceives
A certain murkiness about a thing,
It’s not a bad idea to turn to Jeeves.
“This tribute, Jeeves. You’ve heard of it?” “Yes, sir;
The members of the Junior Ganymede
Applaud it. Readers doubtless will concur.”
“P.G. is for the Abbey, then?” “Indeed
He is, sir.” “Golly, Jeeves!” “Yes, sir, quite so.”
“Right-ho, then, Jeeves. Right-ho, right-ho, right-ho, right-ho!”