by Marshall Cobb
“New pot shop’s neighbors say traffic jams are awful”
—The Boston Globe
If you run a store that peddles pot,
You’ll need a bigger parking lot.
It seems the high demand for grass
Is causing traffic jams in Mass.,
And those who live close by the store
Are more than just a little sore.
Here’s my advice to those fine folk:
Just join the crowd and have a smoke.
by Julia Griffin
“Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell says ‘some kind of response’ is needed from the United States for the Saudis’ role in [Khashoggi’s] gruesome death”—AP
Mitch McConnell from Kentucky,
Where they make the bourbon strong,
Isn’t scared of acting plucky
When he spies a moral wrong.
Thus when poor Jamal Khashoggi
Met his end in Istanbul,
Finding Trump’s reaction soggy,
Mitch spoke up, and roared, in full:
“Some kind of response to that certainly would be in order and we’re discussing what the appropriate response would be.”
Mitch McConnell of the Senate,
Foe to taxes, friend of guns,
Holds dismemberment a tenet
That he absolutely shuns.
Thus when that superb Wahhabi
Known for short as MbS
Made excuses somewhat flabby,
Mitch proclaimed to all the Press:
“I think almost no one believes we should completely and totally fracture our relationship with the Saudis, but, yes, some kind of response is going to be appropriate and we’re going to continue to talk about that.”
by Barbara Loots
“Early in its history, Mars may have looked a lot like Earth. …
But the last 3 billion years have been a slow-motion disaster…”
—The Washington Post
Though Mars is a wasteland of dust,
There’s no sense in making a fuss.
Slow-motion disaster
Will never go faster
And nothing will happen to us.
We seem to have frequenter bouts
With hurricanes, blizzards, and droughts.
But weather is iffy,
Can change in a jiffy,
And science is nothing but doubts.
Forget about climate-change fears.
Our planet is fine, it appears.
So no one need worry
Or be in a hurry.
We’ve still got three billion more years.
by Julia Griffin
“Renoir Estimated at $180,000 Is Stolen From Austrian Auction House”—The New York Times
Who saw, who saw, the small Renoir
Snatched from the auction house ce soir?
The forms were signed, the t’s were crossed,
The auctioneers were toasting Prost!
Now everybody’s mood is noir.
Did some gendarme (affreux à croire!)
Slope off for quelque chose à boire?
There is no way this can be glossed.
Who saw, who saw?
Someone has failed in their devoir,
And lost the house a deal of gloire,
At serious financial cost;
Besides, of course, the painting’s lost,
And like Renoir, that maître d’art,
Who saw, who saw?
by Bruce Bennett
Trump pardons turkeys. Murder, though,
is something we can just let go.
The Saudi Prince has crossed no line.
The Saudis buy our arms. It’s fine.
We’ve made a deal. Why make a fuss?
What matters is the U.S. Us.
But one day soon the ax will fall
on what makes turkeys of us all.
by Julia Griffin
“After President Donald Trump suggested Finland has few wildfires because the nation spends a lot of time ‘raking and cleaning’ forest floors, many were confused. …
Under the hashtag #haravointi (‘raking’), some Finns spent this weekend grabbing their gardening tools—with the more creative types picking up their vacuums and Roomba devices—
and visiting the woods to document their public service.”—Vox
Hoovering a Finnish forest,
As the flower of Finland do,
I observed a foreign tourist
Who had clearly not a clue.
“Sir,” he frowned, “what is your meaning,
If a stranger might inquire?”
I responded, “I am cleaning
To avoid the risk of fire.
“This commission is entrusted
To each able-bodied Finn;
For as long as woods are dusted,
Conflagrations can’t begin.
“It’s the safest sort of science,
Inexpensive and discreet;
Simply wield this small appliance,
And you halt excessive heat.
“Friend, it is a blest maneuver
Which the States should swiftly learn!
For without a timely hoover,
You’ll have nothing left to burn.”
by Phil Huffy
(to the tune of “Those Were The Days, My Friend”)
“Do not eat any romaine Lettuce, FDA warns”—New York Post
(verse)
When I go to lunch I like a salad.
Got to watch out for those calories.
With a little Russian dressing, maybe.
Now I have to think about disease!
(chorus)
You’d better play it safe
Because it may be treyf
Get rid of all the romaine that you’ve got
Close every salad bar
No matter where they are
‘Cause it’s no good and we should let it rot
(verse)
How the CDC has tried to warn us.
You may have to eat those croutons dry.
If by chance you happen on some Iceberg,
Go ahead and give your luck a try.
(chorus)
I went to Mickey D’s
I said, “One salad please”
They said I’d have to take an apple pie
You’d better do the same
Until they fix the blame
Romaine, romaine, has got to go bye-bye
(chorus)
The romaine has to go
And so we have to throw
it into any dumpster, bin or can
Or if you should incline
composting’s mighty fine
It’s just insane—romaine, romaine, romaine
by Julia Griffin
“[President Trump] called for new national ID laws with a bizarre assertion: “If you buy a box of cereal—you have a voter ID.”—The Guardian
You wonder how we’re going to fix
The problem with our votes?
Go buy yourself some Weetabix,
Froot-Loops or Quaker Oats,
Granola Treats or Honey Crunch
(They all come Gluten-Free):
With every box of Sunny Munch,
You have a voter ID.
CHORUS
It’s healthy, non-bacterial,
And handy as can be:
You buy that box of cereal,
You have a voter ID.
To be a straight-up certified
Elector in our nation,
You need no patriotic pride
Or birth certification:
Just buy some Chex or Cheerios
(They come in packs of three):
With every box, I’m seri-os,
You have a voter ID.
CHORUS
So just look magisterial,
Hit Wal-Mart, and whoopee!
Though Justice feels diphtherial,
All that is immaterial:
You buy that box of cereal,
You have a voter ID.
by Susan McLean
The writer of this headline
received an education
when, rushing to meet a deadline,
she missed a hyphenation.
by Dan Campion
The voice of HAL (viz., Douglas Rain)
Has gone where all high tech goes.
We will not hear his like again,
Though, in “smart” homes, it echoes.
by John Foster
Thanksgiving Day in Albuquerque,
That city with the spelling quirque.
The menu’s not southwest beef jerque;
Instead, a perque breast of turque.
by Julia Griffin
after Philip Larkin
“‘Pure joy’: refugees fleeing conflict delighted by first snow in Canada”
—The Guardian 12th November 2018
Eritrean refugees
Out of danger, far from home,
Meet strange welcome overseas
Where it’s cold and monochrome.
Bundled up against the freeze,
Running out of doors they find
White above, before, behind:
Everywhere, completely real!
And they cup their hands in glee,
Tasting winter like a meal:
Earth’s clean generosity.
Kids at last, they jump and squeal,
Letting all of YouTube know
How utterly they love the snow.
by Susannah Greenberg
Justice is broken, she lies on the floor,
and if she should die, there’ll be justice no more.
We’d like to believe she is strong, she is tough,
but she’s fragile and old and it hurts her to cough.
He says she is rapidly losing her mind.
The justice he likes is a different kind,
one that’s drunken and feral and never quite blind,
and kisses his royal fake POTUS behind.
He sits on his throne, as he schemes and he tweets.
Justice is broken; we take to the streets.
by Julia Griffin
When to the Sessions of sweet silenced thought
I offer new ideas for self-expression,
I tell him: “Write your memoirs (they’ll be bought),
And make the title Sessions’s Confession.”
by Bruce Bennett
Mueller, O Mueller, we wished you would act.
It may be too late now. We’re faced with the fact
of Whitaker now in the role of AG.
There may be a shitstorm. Who knows? We will see.
There may be a shitstorm. Trump’s off on a tear!
It’s driving him crazy that Mueller’s still there.
He rants and he raves, like a petulant king
whose time’s running out, while he can’t do a thing.
Does he act like a man? No, he acts out instead,
and he orders his minions to bring him a head.
We are down to the wire. We have to face fact.
O Mueller, please, Mueller! There may be time. Act!