by Chris O’Carroll

I said I was the shutdown guy.
I’d take the mantle and the credit,
But you know how I live to lie.
I didn’t mean it when I said it.

Now there’s no credit, only blame,
So now I mean it even less.
The shutdown I once said I’d claim
I’m calling Chuck and Nancy’s mess.

by Julia Griffin

“An alpaca has confused and delighted residents of a small French town
after wandering into an optician’s shop.”—BBC News

While prospects look steadily blacker,
And news has us fuming and frighted,
In Brittany, France, an Alpaca
This week has confused and delighted

By strolling inside an optician’s
And quietly browsing the lenses.
The thought of such juxtapositions
Reduces our species to frenzies,

But camelids, clearly, are calmer
(Though possibly rather myopic).
It came and it went, with no drama;
So were I in quest of a topic

To comfort me—call it a Zen trick—
And leave my strained nerves somewhat slacker,
I’d turn from the anthropocentric,
And opt for the Opticalpaca.

by Nora Jay

“Britain’s Prince Philip has been spotted driving without a seat belt just 48 hours after his car crash in which the 97-year-old’s Land Rover flipped onto its side. … The husband of the Queen emerged uninjured after the crash on Thursday, according to a statement from local police. “
—CNN

Prince Philip, husband of the Queen,
Has just permitted to be seen
(Undaunted by his last week’s welts)
Blithe disregard for safety belts.
Through Norfolk’s would-be-tranquil glades
He roared, unbelted and in shades:
A thing, it’s fair to say, which few
Nonagenarians would do.
This time, it seems, he did no harm:
He broke no younger driver’s arm,
Nor overturned his Rover (which
Is pricey, even for the rich);
But still we’re asking how we feel.
Should HRH command the wheel?
Reports fly forth, not quickly skewered:
Is Philip licensed? And insured?
All round the Sandringham estate,
Maturer drivers hesitate
Between dislike of accidents
And something else—a secret sense
That even such a great grandee
May long, just sometimes, to be free:
To ride once more as Phil the Greek,
The master of the narrow squeak,
Escaping what so long he’s been:
Prince Philip, husband of the Queen.

by Ruth S. Baker

“If the government is not reopened before March, millions of Americans who receive benefits from the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP)—the nation’s food stamp program—could have their assistance disrupted.”—CBSN

What’s gonna feed me till I’m dead?
Government Cheese and Welfare Bread.
I’ll survive ’long as I got these:
Welfare Bread and Government Cheese.

Government Cheese got a nice warm glare:
Looks a lot like the President’s hair;
Welfare Bread’s got a good fake smell:
There’s that Washington style as well.

Ain’t no hobo, ain’t no Red;
Don’t ask nothing but Welfare Bread.
Work all day till I’m on my knees;
Don’t take away my Government Cheese.

Shut the Government? I don’t know
Where that Welfare Bread’s gonna go;
Lay off paying your employees?
Who’s gonna truck that Government Cheese?

Tell the President, grant us please
Welfare Bread and Government Cheese!
God help the working family fed
On Government Cheese and Welfare Bread.

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.