by Julia Griffin

Ryan Zinke
Was ethically stinke.
Trump made him go
Even so.

by Bruce Bennett

“Did a Queens Podiatrist Help Donald Trump Avoid Vietnam?”
—The New York Times

The bone spur mystery deepens.
It seems there was a link
with Braunstein and with Weinstein.
But what did people think?

That Fred would not have asked them?
That they would not comply
when they owed him a favor?
That Donald would not lie?

It seems our Great Commander
had feet that were okay,
but that’s the game with doctors
and how rich people play

When sons could be in danger.
But look what they have wrought!
If only they had sent him!
Not that he would have fought.

by Chris O’Carroll

All you freaks who are not into girling and boying,
I find your non-binary pronouns annoying.
If you’re just one person, I won’t call you “they.”
And if you saw your classmates get blown away,
I don’t care about anything you have to say.
Today’s youth are retarded if they expect me
To be doing an act that promotes empathy.
Watch me treating the world to my cranky new schtick,
Which might seem familiar. Hey, look at this dick.

by Michael Calvert

“At the stroke of midnight, such beloved classics as Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” … [may be] quoted at length or in full anywhere when the copyright expires on work produced in 1923.”—Vox

Whose words these are I’m sure I know.
But they were penned so long ago,
I now can print them without fear
And cackle as my earnings grow.

With passage of another year,
No longer must I wait to hear
From authors’ greedy progeny
Who wait around for checks to clear.

And high time—near a century
Seems rather long a time to see
Residuals from one as dead
As Robert Frost appears to be.

No longer are they getting fed,
And growing fat on unearned bread,
And I’m financially ahead—
And I’m financially ahead.

by Julia Griffin

“Thirteen people apply online for divorce on Christmas Day”—The Guardian

The first pair was undone by too much punch;
The second by hot toddies, gin, and sherry;
The third by Brussels sprouts at Christmas lunch;
The fourth by “Happy,” as opposed to “Merry.”
The fifth was breakage (none accepted blame);
The sixth was MSG (Mad Shopping Gloom);
The seventh, whether “Santa” was a name;
The eighth, a sulking child in every room.
The ninth was carols (her CD or his?);
The tenth was guests, unasked, who would not go;
Number eleven was a Christmas quiz;
The twelfth pair hissed beneath the mistletoe.
The last of all was really only fun
For lawyers. Season’s Greetings, everyone!

by Dan Campion

“Two completely separate objects that are now joined together…”
—Scientist S. Alan Stern, describing Ultima Thule, a “contact binary” celestial body

As kids, they were unruly.
Then Ultima met Thule.
Now, to the envy of their peers,
Their wedding anniversary nears:
Together for five billion years.

by Mae Scanlan

Our president, the nonstop clown,
Says anything he wants to, yup.
The government would not shut down
If he would just shut up!

by Julia Griffin

“[A ton] of chocolate flows out of factory in Westönnen, coating the pavement”
—The Guardian

Streets paved with gold? Too avant-garde.
With milk and honey? Bland.
With good intentions? Much too hard;
But this I understand.

A pavement with a cocoa coat
Secures my animated vote:
If I were on that German street,
I’d find a way to lick my feet.

by Brendan Beary

“Sarah Huckabee Sanders Wants to Be Remembered as ‘Transparent and Honest'”
—Newsweek

“…And I am Marie of Roumania.”
—Dorothy Parker

I’m making big bucks as a poet,
Like no poet ever before;
No editor ever rejects what I write—
In fact, many beg me for more.

Self-consciousness never afflicts me;
My carefree, relaxed joie de vivre
Enlivens the parties I love to attend
(And never seek reasons to leave).

For these are the times that we live in:
All claims are as true as you want.
I’m brusque and aloof, but will soon be recalled
As being a great bon vivant.

Beginner’s luck ever my partner,
Whatever I try comes with ease.
I have the aroma of lilacs in May
On occasion of cutting the cheese.

And our world’s a utopian wonder,
As Sarah H. Sanders makes plain—
For she is transparent and honest and true,
And I am Juan Carlos of Spain.

by Edmund Conti

“Tumblr will bar all adult content starting December 17″—The Verge

Did looking at Tumblr once trouble you
Because it was NSFW?
It will now be no longer explicit.
Raise your hands if you’ll miss it.

by Ruth S. Baker

“Roger, the Ripped Kangaroo and ‘True Icon,’ has died”—CNN International

Today we said a hushed adieu
To Roger, called the Alpha Roo:
His weight was 89 kg,
His fans 1 million point 3,
His height six foot, unbowed his head,
His neck appropriately red
From rubbing trees—thus making known
That all his wives were his alone.

Oh Roger! You would flex your pecs
As few marsupials could flex;
No less impressive were your abs,
Which stood out proud like hairy slabs.
Before your bold and beefy stance,
The toughest types would turn askance—
Or else they’d rapidly intuit:
Risk rudeness with ripped roos, you’ll rue it.

by Dan Campion

The second Voyager has left
The solar atmosphere.
Will altered cosmic warp and weft
Affect our life down here?

A butterfly in Yucatán,
Some say, can change the world.
If chaos has a sportive plan,
Let’s see that scroll unfurled,

Our little fleet send back good news
That ETs will not bite,
And, rife with talent to amuse,
Contribute verse to Light.

by Julia Griffin

“A 2,000-year-old Roman statuette of a silver-eyed goddess Minerva that for more than a decade was kept in a plastic margarine tub is among a record number of treasure discoveries made by the nation’s army of metal detectorists.”—The Guardian

How long had she been waiting, far from home,
Proud posture and immortal silver stare,
When an enthusiast trepanned the loam
In a dim Oxford field, and struck her there?
He brushed her gently: from her leaden dress
Dropped years of earth. How many, though? How long?
Resisting hope, he made a prudent guess
And called her Modern Copy. He was wrong.
He put her in a plastic tub, once packed
With Flora margarine; her moment past,
She lay forgotten, verdigrised and cracked,
For ten more years, till somebody at last
Glanced in and found her—this unlooked-for prize:
Flora-Minerva, of the silver eyes.

by Nora Jay

“Statue of ‘racist’ Gandhi removed from University of Ghana”—The Guardian

They’re finished with Gandhi in Ghana:
His statue’s been razed from its place,
To punish the sainted Brahmana
For nasty remarks about race.

In Oxford, meanwhile, he’s still dandy:
As fondness for empire implodes,
The students want statues of Gandhi
Instead of the statues of Rhodes.

Sic gloria transit humana.
But could we just ask, ere we chop,
Are they sore about Cecil in Ghana?
Or is there a chance of a swap?

by Julia Griffin

“We have now found juvenile seals with eels stuck in their noses on multiple occasions.”
—Facebook page of the Hawaiian Monk Seal Research Program

We find this week that youthful seals
Have taken to inhaling eels—
Or else we’re seeing eels spelunk
Their way through seals’ phlegmatic gunk.
There’s photographic evidence
Of something’s loss of common sense,
As humankind (for once some use)
Does all it can to tug them loose.
What is the cause of this new fad?
Perhaps the beasts are going mad;
Or maybe it’s a staged tableau
To show how far both kinds will go.
Remember, though our race supposes
There’s something gross in eels-up-noses,
We’ve found no universal rule
For what the young believe is cool.