by Dan Campion
“You always wanted to show losses for tax purposes… it was sport.”
—The President, in a tweet
Ah, Sport, that realm where points get shaved
And calls get blown and rules get waived,
Where refs might not catch sight of fouls,
An umpire blinks, a dugout howls,
Some footballs magically deflate
Like fortunes at the Watergate,
And if you’re good at flop and bluff
You learn to get away with stuff—
Yes, Sport turns Losses into Wins
And subs “tax purposes” for “sins.”
by Ruth S. Baker
“Country House wins Kentucky Derby after Maximum Security disqualified in stunner”
—The Guardian
The horse that lost the Derby
This year at Churchill Downs
Made prematurely blurby
Announcers look like clowns.
He put his best foot forward,
That horse (let’s call him Max),
But also sideways—nor would
He keep within his tracks.
O many was the dollar
Involved in his defeat!
The President, in choler,
Deplored it with a tweet;
All cyberspace is booing:
The case looks set for years
With suing, counter-suing,
And millionaires in tears.
Max keeps his feelings hidden,
But, at a guess, he’d say:
I crossed a line, as bidden.
Barn! Sunlight! Gallop! Hay!
Let’s hope he’s somewhere herby—
No crowds nor Triple Crowns—
The Horse that Lost the Derby
This year at Churchill Downs.
by Bruce Bennett
Barr did what lawyers do.
Hey, what’s the f***ing deal?
It’s what we always knew.
Collusion wasn’t real.
So be our guests. Impeach.
Go at it, and enjoy!
He’ll stay beyond your reach.
The AG? He’s Our Boy!
by Nora Jay
“‘The NRA is in grave danger’: group’s troubles are blow to Trump’s 2020 bid”
—The Guardian
Wayne LaPierre is not in danger.
Trump’s campaign is fine.
There’s no situation-changer.
Don’t be spun a line.
Never mind how many students
End up being shot.
Will they change the jurisprudence?
Obviously not.
Though it’s bright inside our bubbles,
Life outside is grey.
Do not trust the so-called troubles
Of the NRA.
by Julia Griffin
“Prince Harry and Meghan Markle Have Big Post-Baby Plans for Frogmore Cottage”
—The Observer
Each day we’re agog more—
All Twitter’s been beggin’:
What tidings from Frogmore
Of Harry and Meghan?
He’s heading the dad poll,
Her smile is high wattage:
All hail the new Tadpole
Of Frogmore-than-Cottage!
by Edmund Conti
“At that point, it was my baby.”—William Barr, on the Mueller report
Yes sir, that’s my baby
Congress, don’t mean maybe
Yes sir, that’s my baby now
Yes, ma’am, we’ve decided
Kamala, I’m gonna hide it
Yes, ma’m, you’ve been slighted now
By the way, by the way
When I go to Congress I’ll say
Yes sir, you don’t need it
No sir, you can’t read it
Yes sir, that’s my baby now
By the way, by the way
When you call me back I’ll still say
Yes sir, that’s my baby
No sir, I don’t mean maybe
Yes sir, that’s my baby now
by Julia Griffin
“After audience with the sun goddess, Japan’s emperor Akihito prepares to abdicate”
—The Guardian
What did the Emperor say to the Sun Goddess?
No one else heard him so no one can tell;
No one else knows what ineffable languages
Passed in the grove as the long shadows fell.
All that we know is the words he expressed to us,
Standing before the Chrysanthemum Throne:
Prayers for a future serene and illustrious;
Prayers for us all, not one nation alone.
May we be granted a way to be happier;
May there be deities wishing us well!
What did the Sun Goddess say to the Emperor?
No one else heard her, so no one can tell.
by Bruce Bennett
“Motorcycle 101: New College Course Offers Students The ‘Ride Of Their Lives’ … Second-semester college students at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee now have a new favorite class to consider just in time for the start of summer: Harley-Davidson Riding Academy.'”
—PR Newswire
Shakespeare’s out!
Harley’s in!
Who can wait
to begin?
Rev that ride!
Gun that hog!
Trash them books!
Grab that grog!
by Ruth S. Baker
“The Indian army says it has discovered footprints in the Himalayas that appear to belong to a yeti, known in the United States as bigfoot or the abominable snowman.”
—NBC News
Though conscious their chances were slim,
An Army went out on a limb
And tracked a great Snowman
When formerly no man
Had captured clear traces of him.
Assumptions are all very well:
For all these bold soldiers could tell
This big hairy Yeti
Was actually Beti:
The Bombshell Abominabelle.
by Orel Protopopescu
“[Led] by parents of children with dyslexia, a learning disability that makes reading and spelling difficult, some states are trying to change how reading is taught.”
—PBS.org
Who knew that what my mother taught in nineteen fifty-two,
at P.S. 48 in Queens, would rise again, brand new?
In Eisenhower’s day, it seems, a teacher knew what worked,
not swayed by sexy theories, no matter how they twerked.
But then troops of constructivists invaded academe.
Fresh hordes of college graduates made little children scream.
Whole language was a mouthful baby teeth could barely chew,
along with other chunks of junk, now ripe for a redo.
The “writing process” method is a hit in seminars.
But kids like writing fantasy, not premature memoirs.
And while we are undoing bad ideas that drown the good,
let’s bring back fifties tax rates and give thanks to Robin Hood!
What’s next? Clean air and water? Can we manage toxic waste,
restore the thing called justice and, dare we dream, good taste?
by Julia Griffin
“Whale with harness could be Russian weapon, say Norwegian experts”
—The Guardian
Wouldst thou draw out Leviathan?
I’m sure, if thou wouldst try,
’Twould have some purpose higher than
To use him as a spy.
What proof of men’s bizarreness is
This domineering yen
To wrap a whale in harnesses
To peer at other men!
With so much more to threaten us—
The climate’s worse each day—
It seems a trifle cretinous
To spend our time this way;
But still we go safari-in’
Through snow and ice and hail,
And find a Mata Hari in
A sore Beluga whale.
by Bruce Bennett
“A new species of crab that scientists say is the ‘strangest crab that has ever lived’ has been discovered in Colombia and the United States.”
—CNN
Meet Callichimaera perplexa,
A fossil crab certain to vex a
Whole scientist team.
A fantasist’s dream!
What hubris to think one could sex a
Fantabulous creature like that!
A miracle, right off the bat.
Too bad it went missing.
Just think of them kissing!
But why don’t we leave it at that?
by Nora Jay
“Joe Biden tops Democratic field with $6.3 million haul on first day of 2020 bid”
—The Guardian
Progressives can’t abide poor Joe
Because of slips from long ago,
Yet he abides, ambitious still
Despite #MeToo and Dr. Hill.
A body has a right to bide
While lively breath remains inside;
Two slogans mark Joe’s patient climb:
Biden his Time. Biden: His Time.
by Ed Shacklee
Aretha Franklin, sounding unrehearsed,
once sang respect is given, not coerced;
but though a million radios dispersed
her urgent wisdom, eloquently versed,
beneath the beat the message was submersed.
Yet as we’d wish if roles had been reversed,
let’s give the hens respect for which they thirst
and pecks of praise, with cheering interspersed,
their kindnesses with kindness reimbursed.
Some cluck or shake their heads—their lips are pursed,
for pride’s the sour milk on which we’re nursed—
convinced that men are best when we’re the worst;
but on this day when broody chickens burst
with pride, we should, with eggs, admit: they’re first.
by Ed Shacklee
She killed her owner—a misnomer:
nor can you call her cage a home. Her
nature’s free, her aspect fierce.
Her head is blue. Her claws can pierce.
Her beak can rend, her outrage slay,
and plans will often gang aglay,
as Burns about a mouse might say.
How could a man, so old and frail,
outface a bird he kept in jail?
Though he did so to keep her safe,
how could she know; who would not chafe
to be so circumscribed and bounded?
Her kindly captor died, astounded,
within a park he’d named and founded
when, stumbling as he brought her rations,
she surpassed his expectations.
For he was kind, but she was prisoned:
though this was not what he envisioned,
she was amoral as the fairies,
and this dénouement seldom varies
when men grow fond of cassowaries.