“Baby It’s Cold Outside rewritten by John Legend to remove ‘date-rape’ lyric … Legend, along with lyricist Natasha Rothwell, has rewritten the song for a duet with Kelly Clarkson. An interview with Legend in Vanity Fair reveals that the new lyrics include: ‘What will my friends think…’ ‘I think they should rejoice.’ ‘…if I have one more drink?’ ‘It’s your body, and your choice.'” —The Guardian
I really can say no. (Baby, you’re free to go.)
Not that that’s all I say— (Baby, no need to stay.)
Tempest is howling through; (Baby, it’s up to you.)
Also there’s freezing rain. (Baby, I won’t mansplain.)
Car could be quickly wrecked; (Treatin’ you with respect.)
Plus I’ve mislaid the key. (You’ve got autonomy.)
Couldn’t you smooth your voice? (Your body and your choice.)
Kind of enjoyed your drawl. (No pressure here at all.)
Say, what is in this drink? (Water. It’s from the sink.)
Didn’t I smell Merlot? (I get that No means No.)
Maybe I ought to scoot. (Baby, I won’t dispute.)
Guess I should really shift. (Baby, I’ll call a Lyft.)
Guess I should face the storm. (Baby, those boots look warm.)
Guess you’ve been sanctified! (Won’t try to override.)
Could you not sound so snide? (Look, the door’s open wide.)
Baby, it’s cold inside!
“His Unforced Verbal Fumbles Burden Biden on the Stump” —The New York Times
“His unforced verbal fumbles burden Biden on the stump,”
A headline numbly rumbles, clumping stumbles in a lump.
Though jumbles of Joe’s bumbles tumble through a news day’s dump,
His mumbles aren’t as dumb as grumbles trumpeted by Trump.
“Five hundred goats save the Ronald Reagan library from wildfires: Animal team charged with eating through 13 acres of scrubland that could have fueled California’s Easy Fire” —The Guardian
We pride our kind on being better-read;
But goats butt in where bookworms fear to tread.
So here’s a grateful toast to goats and breeders,
From Ronald Reagan’s ruminating readers.
New Jersey is one of only four US states that hold their legislative elections in odd-numbered years and thus have a statewide election every single November.
It’s fall, but all the trees still have their leaves on
in shades of orange, burnished bronze, and red…
…so that must mean that it’s election season.
When I moved here I didn’t need a reason
to drink in beauty—Look around! I said, It’s fall, and yet the trees still have their leaves on!
At first, I settled gladly in a region
where leaves turn stunning right before they’re shed.
Now, it just means that it’s election season—
the lawn signs, and the mailers, and the legion
of lying TV ads, the “Talking Heads.”
It’s fall, and though the trees still have their leaves on
I pass them by, and not a single frisson
of joy will pierce the existential dread
that weighs me down each new election season.
The President may have committed treason.
No wonder that my peace of mind has fled!
It’s fall, and while the trees still have their leaves on,
that simply means (now) it’s election season.
“[A military dog] … chased Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi into a tunnel before he [Baghdadi] detonated a suicide vest and died. Intrigue about the dog began building after the president disclosed that […] the dog was injured. … ‘Our canine, as they call — I call it a dog, a beautiful dog, a talented dog — was injured and brought back,’ Trump said.” —The Washington Post
“A spy stole ISIS leader Baghdadi’s underwear for DNA test, Kurds say” —CNN
The Kurds (no angels, as we know)
Still brought us news it’s good to know:
Baghdadi’s shorts were snatched away
And tested for their DNA.
Who made the link from briefs to man?
Some scientist, perhaps (they can),
But this terse tweet from Trump suggests
Less posh identifying tests.
Some lodge their talent in their minds,
But talents come in different kinds,
And much though DNA may tell,
There’s nothing quite so sure as smell.
Who caught Big Daddy in the end?
Some famous SEAL? Forget it, friend:
A selfless canine, on his shift,
Chased Someone down a hole, and sniffed.
House members stompin’ say they can’t come in. You keep us out? they say, we’ll barge right in! Your secret hearings are a cryin’ sin, and we’ll be comin’ back to try it again!
Here comes Lee Zeldin, Rep from New York One. (Ha!)
Why is he cocky, like a loaded gun? (Whooo!)
He’s got a seat, so why this bombin’ run?
He always stays until the hearing’s done!
Trump told him this is how we’re gonna win,
show me you love me, go and barge right in.
To turn this thing around, we need some spin.
You gotta have the guts to pull out the pin!
So Zeldin’s stompin’ down the road to Hell,
his belfry ringin’ like a broken bell.
He can’t smell sulfur, got no sense of smell.
That should be useful in a prison cell. (Whah!)
He keeps a stompin’ but he can come in.
He’s got to show the boss his skin’s not thin. (Whooo!)
Not easy playin’ rage not genuine,
knowin’ your party is a loony bin.
He keeps a stompin’ cause he doesn’t care
about the process that he calls unfair.
Next time he better bring a potty chair
to hold the crap he’s spewin’ into the air! (Whooo!)
House members stompin’ say they can’t come in. You keep us out? they say, we’ll barge right in! Your secret hearings are a cryin’ sin, and we’ll be comin’ back to try it again!
“Bangladeshi MP allegedly hired eight lookalikes to take her place in exams … Tamanna Nusrat, from the ruling Awami League party, is accused of paying the lookalikes to pretend to be her in at least 13 tests.” —The Guardian
The me who took Sports Management
Was sure of 90+%,
While some more sums-y avatar
Took charge of College Algebra.
My very closest lookalike
Was down for Logic and for Psych,
Though greater love no double hath
Than offering herself in Math.
The self who took Domestic Science
Was in, we thought, complete compliance,
And my most money-minded me
Took Business and Accountancy.
Who really cares which Nusrat sits
For tests in Foreign Langs and Lits?
Only my wretched Ethics twin,
Who took the test, then turned me in.
“Chris the sheep, a merino famed for once being discovered with the world’s heaviest fleece, has died in Australia. The animal generated global attention in 2015 after being spotted in the wild carrying what was described as six years’ worth of wool. A life-saving haircut followed, with a shearer removing 41.1kg (88lb) of fleece—later confirmed to be a world record. On Tuesday, his carers at a New South Wales farm said he had died of old age. … The sanctuary added that while Chris was best known for his fleece, to staff he had been ‘so much more’.” —BBC News
In New South Wales, the farmers weep,
Then fondly reminisce
About the just-departed sheep
Known globally as Chris,
Whose harvest of merino wool
(And other odd debris)
Would once have rendered three bags’ full,
Each 13 + kg.
This awed the world, but Chris’s friends
Had found him so much more—
So now, they hope his state transcends
The best he’d known before:
He hears the music of the spheres,
And chews the grass of peace,
With no necessity for shears
To touch his risen fleece;
For what was once a greasy shroud
Is now an airy shawl:
A sweet, self-generated cloud,
Which has no weight at all.
“[New Twitter star] cigarette cockroach is giving [older Twitter star] pizza rat a run for its money in New York” —CNN
Cigarette Cockroach is taking the air,
Smoke-scented spiracles gently aflare,
Barely perceptibly raising his hat
In the direction of Pizza King Rat.
Weighing the chances that each of them has,
Rat, say the pundits, rates first for pizzazz;
Roach, by comparison, has it for class.
Though among rodents mere whiskers might pass,
Next to antennae they look like old strings;
Nor has plain spine the charisma of wings.
“Hey!” cackles Razza, his jaws full of cheese,
“Siggi can’t even support his own fleas.
Voting for me, all you fauna should know,
You vote for yourselves. I’m the dude with the dough.”
