“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.
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.
“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.
“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!
“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.
“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.
“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.
