by Jerome Betts
“The world’s best B&B is in Torquay, says TripAdvisor”
—London Evening Standard
The English Riviera’s Queen
Has splashed worldwide on page and screen
Not for its rather faded charms
Bedecked with NZ cabbage-palms,
Or once inspiring Aggie C.
To dream up Belgium’s Hercule P.
Or wits to fill our idle hours
With that great series Fawlty Towers,
But for possessing, pace Cleese,
The very best of B & Bs.
by Michael Calvert
“The furloughing of hundreds of Food and Drug Administration inspectors has sharply reduced inspections of the nation’s food supply”
—The Washington Post
The folks at fda.gov
Have mostly gone away.
I used to eat and pray and love;
Now I just eat and pray.
by Julia Griffin
“First green leaf on moon dies as temperatures plummet”—The Guardian
See how the first green leaf, the shoot of cotton,
That bloomed so bravely all the afternoon,
Tonight has perished, frozen and forgotten,
Abandoned on the far side of the Moon!
So passes, like the passing of a comet,
All earthly life. Is that a theme for mirth?
I see a moral here; let’s profit from it:
For any earthly chance at life, choose Earth.
by Ruth S. Baker
“Michael Cohen paid IT firm to tweet that he was sexy”—The Guardian
Although more legal hit man
Than downright sexy beast,
He made himself an IT man
In one respect at least.
by David Hedges
“The Pure American Banality of Donald Trump’s White House Fast-Food Banquet”
—The New Yorker
As Lincoln ponders on the wall
Above the splendid venue,
Little Donnie stands in thrall
At having planned the menu—
The silly grin that splits his face,
The tiny hands, the hair,
The table stacked beyond disgrace
With Donnie’s favorite fare,
Big Macs, fries, Filet-O-Fishes,
Enough to feed an army,
Calories beyond all wishes.
Donnie’s gone plumb barmy.
“Look at me,” he spouts with glee,
“I’ve scored another coup!”
The Clemson Tigers take a knee.
Chacun à son goût.
by Julia Griffin
“Gillette ad takes on ‘toxic masculinity’ in #MeToo-era rebrand, provoking a backlash”
—The Washington Post
MeToo has set us asking, What’s the best a man can get?
Before you tie yourself in knots, the answer’s still Gillette.
by Nora Jay
“Saudi Arabia to notify women of divorce by text message:
New law aims to stop men from ending marriages without telling their wives”
—The Guardian
Ex-dear, I cannot say how vexed
And mortified I am
At finding that my recent text
Was sorted into spam—
So that, ex-love, you did not learn
What courts have since endorsed:
That you have served your spousal turn,
And now you are divorced.
by Julia Griffin
“50-year-old French author says women over 50 ‘too old’ to love”
—The Independent
Madame, ma vieille:
Please go away.
You’re fifty, or above;
And thus, grand-mère,
You’ve no prière:
You’re just too old to love.
You’re lined, you’re feeble,
You’re invisible,
So off, chère chauve, please shove:
Your peau is sèche,
You’ve sagging flesh:
You’re just too old to love.
Ma vieille Madame,
How old I am
It’s pointless thinking of:
The truth, en somme,
Is: I’m un homme;
You’re just too old to love.
by Orel Protopopescu
Trump stormed out of a meeting
with Pelosi and Chuck Schumer.
He’d staged this fleeting fit of pique,
according to a rumor.
In truth, his phantom tantrum
was as phony as his tan,
as fake as the emergency
he made because he can.
His disorder on the border?
That’s a clinically clear sign
that Hocus POTUS, all pretense,
in truth is borderline.
by Michael Calvert
It’s very strange, since Lord knows, I am no fan of award shows,
But I thought I’d give the Golden Globes a whirl—
Then I saw a dark-haired hottie, there among the glitterati,
Now I’m in love with Fiji Water Girl.
Her eyes and raven tresses far outshone their fancy dresses
Her Mona Lisa smile was sweet and calm.
No starlet she—no fame—indeed, nobody knew her name—
Mysterious mistress of the photobomb.
How gladly I’d pursue her, fall at her feet and woo her,
And—dare I dream it—we could run away—
To some island out of reach, where upon a tropic beach,
She’d serve me Fiji Water on a tray.
I’d be drunker than on gin with my pretty Gunga Din
To bring me water that would taste like wine—
I’d be happy— no, elated! (not to mention well-hydrated),
If only Fiji Water Girl were mine!
by Julia Griffin
“The US secretary of state, Mike Pompeo, has vowed the US and its allies will “expel every last Iranian boot” from Syria as he sought to reassure Middle Eastern nations it was not withdrawing from the region despite Donald Trump’s call for troops to return home.”—The Guardian
When every last Iranian boot
From Syria is well en route,
Then, not before, will up and go
The last American heel and toe.
But while Iranian footprints smear
The streets of Homs and Dayr Hafir,
There’s no GI with soul to damn
Who’d be so callous as to scram.
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.