“Ghislaine Maxwell is the woman at the center of the Jeffrey Epstein scandal. She’s not been seen in months” —CNN
O what has become of the Lady Ghislaine?
She’s vanished with never a trace, or a stain.
Have journalists driven her over the edge,
That billionaire belle with the name that means “pledge”?
A rumor is running (you know how they are)
That Lady Ghislaine’s gone the way of her Pa,
Who somehow contrived the most tragic of stunts:
Fell overboard, drowned, and was fished out at once
And recognized—settling thereby the hash
Of those he had owed an abundance of cash.
His enemies suffered quite genuine pain
When Maxwell was lost from the Lady Ghislaine—
For this was the name of both daughter and boat.
In any Ghis-contest, the boat gets my vote:
Both sailed in deep water, more flashy than sure;
But human Ghislaine sank the young and the poor.
O Lady Ghislaine, there are rumors at large:
There’s talk of subpoenas, and even a charge …
Though optimists swear we will see you again,
I’ll wait for your funeral, Lady Ghislaine.
“The Apostrophe Protection Society has closed, because ‘ignorance has won.’“
—The Oldie
“Grocer’s apostrophe [in British English]: NOUN an apostrophe placed before
a final s intended to indicate the plural but in fact forming the possessive.”
—Collins Dictionary
The protectors, it seems, have begun a retreat, The sticklers withdrawn to their lairs.
How sad it must be thus to suffer defeat By the sellers of apple’s and pear’s.
“Mr. Hunter, a Republican congressman known for his hard-line views
and early support for President Trump, pleaded guilty on Tuesday…
to conspiracy to steal campaign funds.” —The New York Times
Duncan Hunter pleaded guilty,
though he said it was his wife
who took care of their finances,
since he has a busy life.
“Lovestruck pig pursues TV reporter live on air” —CNN
He’s nothing to make a big deal about.
There’s lots of good boars in the shed!
He grunts even though there’s no meal about.
His bristles are all on his head.
He walks on two hooves—there’s no tellin’ him.
His snout is too snub for the pail.
My friends have no clue what I smell in him:
Who knows what he’s done with his tail?
He eats with his feet. He’s too tall for me.
His ears are mere slits. He likes ham;
O Lazos, you’re no good at all for me—
Poor, pitiful pig that I am!
“With suction cups and lots of luck, scientists measure blue whale’s heart rate” —Reuters
The heart rate of Leviathan
Is yogic: half of yours or mine;
Another diagnostic sign
Of what sad shape our brains are in.
For if we took things with the flow,
Like Stoics and the great blue whale,
Our hearts would strengthen, learn to slow,
And bring our troubles down in scale.
Said Mitch McConnell, “Guess I’m kinda lucky,
The only living turtle in Kentucky.
I coulda been a can of soup at Costco;
Instead, I’m kept alive to service Moscow.”
Dear Taliban,
Say something nice to him, pretend you can
pull off some deal, unveil some half-assed plan.
The fact that he’s aggrieved as Caliban
is something you’ve in common. He’s no fan
of what you blew to pieces in Bamyan.
Just make it look as if you and the man
both give the vaguest semblance of a damn
about Afghanistan.
“There was one surprising point of fascination among the viewing public: the bow tie worn by George P. Kent, the State Department official in charge of Ukraine.” —The New York Times
Bill Taylor is Jim Jordan’s “star,”
But George Kent wears the tie
And festive matching pocket square
That hold the nation’s eye.
