by Barbara Loots
The catalog of paper dolls,
and children’s Christmas wishes,
of shoes and ships and sealing wax,
appliances and dishes,
of bicycles and training bras,
red sweaters and plaid frocks,
of power tools and winter coats
and kindergarten blocks,
encyclopedia of dreams,
the hope of everything
an order form might conjure
and the postal service bring
already was forever lost—
and now the store is gone,
another victim in a world
enslaved by amazon.
by Julia Griffin
“PG Wodehouse fans delighted at plans for Westminster Abbey tribute:
Ben Schott, author of a new Jeeves and Wooster novel, reported ‘a ripple of joy’ at the Wodehouse Society dinner when the tribute was announced.”—The Guardian
“Dashed bally decent of those Abbey chaps”
Sprang first to mind; good cheer to men, in sum.
Later, sustained by half a snort perhaps,
The Wooster brain grew pensive. Rather rum
That, of one’s pals, not even Stiffy Byng
Knew of this knees-up? When a chap perceives
A certain murkiness about a thing,
It’s not a bad idea to turn to Jeeves.
“This tribute, Jeeves. You’ve heard of it?” “Yes, sir;
The members of the Junior Ganymede
Applaud it. Readers doubtless will concur.”
“P.G. is for the Abbey, then?” “Indeed
He is, sir.” “Golly, Jeeves!” “Yes, sir, quite so.”
“Right-ho, then, Jeeves. Right-ho, right-ho, right-ho, right-ho!”
by Chris O’Carroll
I’m a Chateau
Crazy Mofo,
I’m a complex wine.
This Prez don’t choose
Any old booze,
But he’ll swill down mine.
by Julia Griffin
“Banksy Painting Self-Destructs After Fetching $1.4 Million at Sotheby’s”—
New York Times
Just as Banksy’s best-known art—
Little girl with blow-up heart—
Went beneath the hammer, for
All the dealers hoped, and more,
Earning it still greater fame,
Lo! inside the picture frame
An invisibly embedded
Shredder came to life and shredded.
Luckily this naughty act
Left the painting’s heart intact:
Experts quickly came to grips
With a little girl in strips,
And confirmed the worth increased
By four million pounds at least:
Inflating thus the love and cheer
Of buyer and of auctioneer.
by Joanna Bird
Maurizio “Zanza” Zanfanti, a prolific Latin lover, died immediately after making love in his car, which was parked in his family’s peach grove.
Maurizio “Zanza” Zanfanti,
Whose conquests hit staggering numbers,
Has died in delicto flagrante
And gone to his post-coital slumbers.
He pleasured the female profusion
That sunbathed on Rimini’s beaches.
As in life, so his death: a conclusion
While surrounded by sun-ripened peaches.
by Chris O’Carroll
President Nelson (best not call him Russ),
As Heaven’s new point man, is making a fuss.
As sure as he’s sure that Joe Smith was no fraud,
He’s certain that nicknames are frowned on by God.
For “Latter-day Saints,” may we say “LDS”?
He’s thundering no where Saints used to say yes.
If anyone these days should call him a “Mormon,”
He’d call that an error in need of reformin’.
We must say the whole name, says President Russ.
No slack on this score is Russ cutting for us.
by Julia Griffin
“I’m saying this horse knew me,” Neeson said… “He actually remembered me from another western we made a while back … He whinnied when he saw me. And pawed the ground.”
—The Guardian
Liam? Ah yes. I perfectly recall
How I observed him hanging round my stall
All through the shoot… It was a Western, so
We needed humans (all quite safe, you know!).
So now he’s back? I hope I’m not aloof;
I can’t, however, claim I raised my hoof
At his return—and let me, if I may,
State categorically, I did not neigh.
Still, never mind. I’m happy to provide
A co-performer with a source of pride;
For they have feelings too, let’s not forget:
The animals one works beside on set.
by Steven Clayman
How do you make the case
For Kavanaugh on SCOTUS?
Just whitewash the disgrace,
The ranting that took place,
The lying to your face,
And hope no one will notice.
by Bruce Bennett
“The next time you’re standing at the edge of a
scenic cliff or on top of a waterfall, take care
before snapping a quick selfie. It could be the
last thing you do.”—The Washington Post
I’ll just stand here. This should look great!
A little to the left. But wait.
Back up a little. Then they’ll see…
A little more. Right here. Aieeeeee…..
by Julia Griffin
for Sophie
“Drunk birds are causing havoc in a Minnesota town.”—The Washington Post
I perch upon a little branch
At every summer’s end,
Because I know an avalanche
Of berries will descend,
And nourish me with moisture which
Quite satisfies my wishes.
I won’t deny it’s rather rich
But it’s ledish—delicious
(I said ledicious!): rain or shine,
I’ve been here for an hour,
I should suppose, and show and so
Although the sour’s shower
(I shed that)—have I had enough?
Are you suggip! suggesting
Inshinuations? I am tough!
I’m leaning ’cosh I’m resting—
I haven’t fishifinished! Fruit?
It’s vita-vitaminit:
I’m sore you’re shorry! You can shoot
Yourshelf, you litterlinnet:
I’m tuffa thana loushycow!
I’d beeta bluddicat!
I’mlyinon agoddambough!
Showotchoolookinat?
by James Higgins
So racist. So sexist. So partisan, no?
So two-faced. So glib. So “how low can we go?”
So vicious. So cruel. So “we’d-rather-not-know.”
So baldly dishonest. So soulless. So faux.
So “ubi est mea?” (It’s all ‘bout the dough.)
So intolerant, crude. So unwilling to grow.
So shameless. So wrong. So unprincipled…whoa!
Is this who we are? Well…apparently so.
by Jerome Betts
“. . . the wealth-creating sector of
the economy. The people who get up
at the crack of dawn to prepare their
shops. The grafters and the grifters,
the innovators, the entrepreneurs.”
—Boris Johnson speech
How apt that while getting his fix
Of plaudits and sound bites and pix
He appears to extol
Those whose principal role
Is the playing of confidence tricks.
speaks fluent propaganda, and knows no other tongue.
~ Mark Granier
by Julia Griffin
“’We were just sitting out in the middle of the ocean and then this huge male seal appeared with an octopus and he was thrashing him about for ages,’ Mulinder told the news channel. ‘I was like ‘mate, what just happened?’ It was weird because it happened so fast but I could feel all the hard parts of the octopus on my face.’”—The Guardian
Mulinder was a paddle king, his kayaking was great,
He liked to sit with sea all round and call the creatures “mate”;
He kayaked with his camera, aquatic as a plaice,
Until the day eight tentacles unfurled across his face.
His face was full of octopus—he had no time to dodge;
Like some prehensile blunderbuss, it landed with a splodge.
It did not act with animus, it showed a certain grace,
That octopodic incubus that flipped him in the face.
A mollusk-flinging seal had caught Mulinder off his guard:
He had not known an octopus had parts so very hard.
He scratched his newly-slimy head. “What happened, mate?” he cried;
And wincing at the syllable the whiskered one replied:
“Your face is full of octopus; here’s why I had you sluiced:
I’m not your mate—you’re human, plus we’ve not been introduced.
I see no need to flap and flail; I think I’ve made my case;
Don’t make me find a killer whale to flip you in the face.”
by Chris O’Carroll
Some drunken dry humping, a tool to the face—
These party tricks might have been wrong.
But our Party can trust women’s rights in the hands
Of a judge with an activist schlong.