by David Hedges
The female crayfish that gives birth
Without a mate, for what it’s worth,
Will one day dominate the Earth
By squeezing out the ones that play
By Nature’s rules. With sex passé,
This crayfish knows when Mother’s Day
Is nigh because she has a choice —
A strong, no longer passive, voice —
In when to lay her eggs. Rejoice,
Ye lovers of the human race!
Someday it may be commonplace
To breed without a fond embrace.
The quicker women learn they can
Conceive without a middleman
(A fact of life since time began)
The sooner men will say, “No more
Do we feel free to march to war.”
The Women’s Diplomatic Corps
Will make a veiled appeal for peace,
And armed hostilities will cease.
Communities will charge police
With keeping people safe and sound.
The implications are profound!
(Don’t worry, we’ll still fool around.)
by Orel Protopopescu
The news is hot, hot off the wires,
so flaming hot it’s molten—
McMaster’s out, that thinking hunk,
and now we’re getting Bolton.
John’s itching to deliver nukes
to states that need a jolt.
If I were Kim Jong Un I’d think
perhaps it’s time to bolt.
by Mae Scanlan
Trump says he can flatten Biden.
Well, let’s give the thing a go.
I don’t know with whom you’re sidin’;
As for me, my dough’s on Joe.
by Julia Griffin
“Alexander Nix, the CEO of Cambridge Analytica, the firm at the heart of the data-mining scandal, has been suspended. …
In a series of secret recordings broadcast on Channel 4 News, Nix claimed credit for the election of Donald Trump.”—The Guardian
A secret sting has caught the tricks
Of Mr. Alexander Nix:
His firm, between and yet betwixt,
Has sadly had him 86’d.
His prospects may have crossed the Styx
Through fraud and pride, a fatal mix:
Trump’s triumph, he divulged, was fixed!
Unluckily, this can’t be nixed.
by Bob McKenty
No Team of Rivals, such as Lincoln had
(The independent thinker Trump disowns).
If you are not a sycophant, too bad:
“You’re fired!” (He wants to field a Team of Clones.)
by Chris O’Carroll
Stephen Hawking,
Without much walking or talking,
Managed to explore and converse
With the whole universe.
At 21 years old,
He was told
That he didn’t have long to live.
Turns out time is relative.
by Louise Michelle
Oh, Tillerson, it’s sad to know
you got the boot not long ago.
Beneath Trump’s feet there grows no grass;
by way of tweet, he dumped your ass.
It’s all too clear that dude’s unhinged.
You did your job, but he infringed.
You’ll get work soon; don’t feel dismay.
Just leave Trump off your résumé.
by Millard Williams
Today I read that nevermore
Will frazzled parents stroll your store
And snatch from off your sagging shelves
Plush teddy bears and mutant elves
And other items urchins seek
To torment for one fleeting week.
No more the Lego battleship,
The Nerf gun with the pistol grip
As lifelike as a gangster’s Glock,
The baby dolls that piss and talk.
No more. No more. You’ve had your run.
Now other stores. And other fun.
by Mae Scanlan
Since Trump’s into purging, perhaps he could toss
His top Educator, Ms. Betsy DeVos.
She’s lacking in substance, excelling in gloss,
The D of E demoiselle Betsy DeVos.
You’d think she’d go visit the schools facing loss,
But she hasn’t done so, not Betsy DeVos.
Instead she promotes giving lucrative sauce
To charter and private schools, Betsy DeVos.
To those in the field, how does she come across?
As lightweight and flippant, Ms. Betsy DeVos.
‘Round the agency’s neck she’s a true albatross,
Impeding its progress, Ms. Betsy DeVos.
She’s in for as long as it pleases her boss,
The pleasant, unqualified Betsy DeVos.
Another named Betsy, with surname of Ross,
Would shake her head sadly at Betsy DeVos.
by Orel Protopopescu
“President Donald Trump flubbed a key word in his address to the March for Life rally on Friday, mistakenly telling anti-abortion protesters … ‘Right now, a number of state laws allow a baby to be born from his or her mother’s womb in the ninth month. It is wrong. It has to change.'”—People.com
We all know he’s not a genius,
that he misread torn for born,
but this so-called flub might merit
more analysis than scorn.
In a nation full of weapons,
babies may require far more
than nine months of solitary
to feel warm, safe and secure.
by Edmund Conti
Among Trump’s problems to be sorted out—
Having his body man escorted out.
by Dan Campion
I’m Stormy, big guy, who are you?
You’re Dave? Then Peg, that’s me.
No sense in letting out a clue.
It’s Don? I’m Stephanie.
We’re on the same page now, at last.
Except you didn’t sign.
Well, be it known we had a blast
In ways names can’t define.
by Bruce Bennett
“Asked by New Scientist magazine what he thought
about most, Dr. Hawking answered: ‘Women.
They are a complete mystery.'”—The New York Times, 3/14/18
Black holes were nothing. He got the hang
Of Time, the Universe, The Big Bang.
Just one thing stumped him, eluding his brain.
He’s gone, and that mystery will remain.
by Brendan Beary
The woman repeatedly shouted, “I’m God!” as she tried to pop open the door,
Till startled attendants and passengers stopped her and wrestled her down to the floor.
I’ve questions aplenty—but if you can answer the first, I’ll forgo all the rest:
For getting from Frisco to Boise, why is it the godhead is taking SkyWest?
by Julia Griffin
Florida woman wins conch-blowing contest—and a marriage proposal
Fellow conch player Rick Race, 73 … dropped to one knee on stage and proposed to [Mary Lou] Smith, 70. She responded by coaxing a hearty note from the shell, as onlookers cheered.—The Guardian
O charming was the conch she blew!
Admirers clustered thick;
But none would do for Mary Lou
But Concho Honcho Rick.
Rick Race, his name: a concher-wonk,
By nobody impressed
Till Mary Lou performed a conch
Concerto in Key West.
Such hearty concord filled the air,
He dropped upon one knee,
Whereat she coaxed her conch to bare
Its heart’s concavity.
Then all around began to cheer,
And bang the honky tonk,
The surfboard, and the chandelier,
In time with conch and conch:
For Mary Lou had won her Race,
Her very best encore;
While one might trace in Race’s face
The conscious conqueror.
