by Jerome Betts
“Methane emissions from cattle
are 11% higher than estimated.”
—The Guardian
Onward, cows and bullocks,
Browsing as of yore
Grass that covers Britain
Like a bright green floor.
Once it’s been digested
Gas will upwards go,
Boosting global warming
Everywhere below.
by Cody Walker
(with apologies to Robert Frost)
Some share their smokes with Billy Squier,
Some with Tom Price.
From what I’ve gathered from “The Wire,”
I hold with those who favor Squier.
But if I had a head of lice,
I think I’d walk the interstate,
And search for Dr. Thomas Price,
Who’s not so great,
And not so nice.
by Susan McLean
Is Kim Jong-Un
the Looney Tune
who’ll launch A-bombs for spite?
Or is Donald Trump
the lethal chump
who’ll do it? Either might.
Our future tense
lies in suspense.
Good night, sweet world, good night.
by Edmund Conti
José, can you see (no, I guess not, the Wall)
What so proudly we hail by the stadium’s light.
Whose broad stripes and bright stars (they were not meant for all)
Were meant for just us English-speaking and white.
And the terrorists’ glare, their bombs bursting in air
Gave proof that with ISIS, you’d better stay there.
Yes, stay where you are and do us all a fave.
Don’t come to the land of the free and the brave.
by Katherine Swett
Tippety-tappety
Congressman Anthony
can’t keep his fingertips
off of his screens.
Some might consider him
nymphet-maniacal,
sending his messages
only to teens.
by Ian Graham
Sologamy
Is the trend, I see.
Not She plus He
Nor He plus She
Nor He plus He
Nor She plus She
But Me plus Me
Till death Me do part
And My passionate heart
Stops beating as one,
Thus ending My fun.
Sologamy
Will set us all free.
Get off the shelf—
Marry yourself.
Fight urban growth—
Plight your own troth.
Do your own thing—
Wear your own ring.
The knot has self-tied.
You may now kiss your pride.
Well, each to his or her own, of course.
But what if it ends in a messy divorce?
by Jerome Betts
Some say the grandson of a Midlands yeoman
Foresaw a then small language fully grown—
That line he gave to Cassius, a Roman,
In states unborn and accents yet unknown!
Perhaps—but now, when off across the ocean
A leading actor on the global stage
Reveals to all his rudimentary notion
Of speech, some warn it’s near the seventh age.
by Chris O’Carroll
His clout was enough to arrange,
Via Twitter, an upset for Strange,
So the president thought.
When he learned it was not,
His tweet history started to change.
by Dan Campion
A Casanova Hef was not,
Nor Byron’s pet, Don Juan,
Nor Earl of Rochester (that sot).
Of rakes, Hef was a new one
Who riffled sheaves of eight-by-tens
And turned them into gold
That warmed the Cold War’s drafty dens
With sizzling centerfold.
While news blared cover-up, high crime,
And international feud,
Hef was the Courbet of his times,
The champion of the nude.
Let Venus be his elegy;
His relics, robe and pipe.
His influence? Dons won’t agree,
Except it’s blushing ripe.
by Julia Griffin
Hurricanes, earthquakes, nuclear flares:
But nothing so very real
As a billionaire telling millionaires
They are not allowed to kneel.
by Chris O’Carroll
The things that he likes about Nambia
Are, believe me, too many to list.
Of praise for the health care in Nambia
His applause mainly seems to consist.
The strides they’ve been making in Nambia
Are terrific ones, that is his gist.
He has much more knowledge of Nambia
Than of countries that really exist.
by Joanna Bird
RSPCA called to rescue lizard that turns out to be a dirty sock — The Independent, September 2017
Is it a rare type of pink stripy gecko,
Or some other lizardy reptile instead?
Surely it can’t be a dragon (Komodo)—
Enough to fill anyone’s family with dread!
But no, it’s a far more formidable foe:
A teenager’s sock lurking under the bed.
by Julia Griffin
The Dotard is a cross between a leopard and a deer:
A fulminating throat before a vulnerable rear.
by Mark Granier
Manafort,
scrambling for any port
in a storm, any vessel docked in Shit Creek,
asks only that it won’t leak.
Sessions
in secret, before a mirror, does his impressions
of Yoda
and Jayne Mansfield sipping a cream soda.
Kelly
managed to separate Trump from his favourite telly
but, when it came to Twitter,
had to conscript the wife, the bodyguard and the babysitter.
by Orel Protopopescu
He takes a swing at Hillary
when feeling lost or off his game.
He doesn’t need artillery.
A thumb will do. He has no shame.
Polls under par? Balls out of bounds?
Then why not hit her in the back?
His base adores the way it sounds,
the whoosh! each time he takes a whack.
Teed off by Mueller’s iron grip,
he searches through his bag of fun
for phantom clubs to let her rip—
this madman, cheat, a-hole-in-one.