“[Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez] spent nearly $300 on her hairdo at a pricey salon she frequents in downtown Washington… Her high-dollar hairdo stands in stark contrast to that of former Attorney General Jeff Sessions … who is a regular customer at Senate Hair Care Services.” —The Washington Times
AOC, that pampered dullard,
At a place which charged top dollar
Had her tresses cut and colored,
Filling Fox’s Friends with choler.
“Fraud!” they clamored. “How improper!
What a slave to mere impressions,
When so near and cheap a chopper
Coifs the brow of grave Jeff Sessions!”
The Don believes that he should win
A Nobel Prize, or five or six.
In Physics, he has shown that spin,
When issued from a looney bin,
Can pulverize our politics.
In Chemistry, he’s proved that air
Can hold more carbon than we thought.
In Medicine, the wear-and-tear
He’s heaped upon Obamacare
Gives private plans a booster shot.
In Economics, he has shone,
Imposing tariffs left and right
For reasons only he alone
Can fathom (if he has a bone
To pick, you’re in his line of sight).
In Literature, no one alive
Or dead and in his grave competes
In volume or in hyperdrive
With Prexy Number Forty-five
When he taps out his fearsome tweets.
The Peace Prize looms just out of reach.
He’s asked dear Vladimir to dance,
And they’ve found novel ways to breach
Time-honored protocols; impeach
The Don, and peace will stand a chance.
She married a doctor who paid all the bills
and they settled in England’s impeccable hills.
Her bushes were trimmed and her borders pristine,
she was quite the big deal on the tea party scene
where she wowed with her baking advice,
did Juniper Bilberry-Bryce.
She read all the papers the dear doctor bought—
it was so much more simple than forming a thought.
“The country’s in chaos!” they told her. “It’s time
to slash immigration! To crack down on crime!”
“These mean streets have never been meaner,”
she said to her Latvian cleaner.
Now, meanwhile, in London, a leader arose
whom the editors feted with toadying prose.
He promised the people a piece of the pie
as he dined with the damned and the succubi.
“I hear that he’s awfully nice,”
said Juniper Bilberry-Bryce.
He doubled the army and armed the police,
he sold off the forests for five pounds a piece,
he schooled the achievers, excluded the rest
and the papers declared he was simply the best!
But then, from the earth and the skies,
his sponsors appeared for their prize.
As the hellmouth spilled over with demons and brutes
who trampled all over her runner-bean shoots,
thought Juniper, “What would the editors say?”
So she picked up a pitchfork, joined in the fray,
and sent England to hell in a trice,
did Juniper Bilberry-Bryce.
“We had twenty mountain climbers. That’s all they do—they love to climb mountains. They can have it. Me, I don’t want to climb mountains. But they’re very good, and some of them were champions. And we gave them different prototypes of walls, and this was the one that was hardest to climb.”—Donald Trump, Leader of the Free World
When twenty climbers went to test
My wall, one section proved the best;
This was the prototype I chose,
The one that snookered alpine pros.
My message here is crystal clear:
Only the most skilled mountaineer
Can scale my wall’s imposing face,
My tribute to the master race.
(If you believe this latest tale
You’ll love the bridge I have for sale.)
“Author Simon Hewitt has unearthed a little-studied image held in Germany, a “comic strip” design made in 1495 to illustrate a poem, that showed how Leonardo was once ridiculed. In one of its colourful images, An Allegory of Justice, a ginger-haired … court lawyer is shown seated at a desk, mesmerised by other young men, and represents Leonardo da Vinci. ‘The identity of Leonardo as the red-headed scribe is totally new,’ Hewitt told the Observer…” —The Guardian
Does everybody know the star from Vinci,
The naughty genius with the Judas hair—
The one whose face is sort of puffed and pinchy?
I found him in a comic strip. So there.
I spied him scrawling rubbish on a table,
Too stunned with lust to regulate his pen;
Meanwhile his father stuck him with a label
About his taste for better-looking men.
Who says he doesn’t look exactly lustful?
Who says the label might be just a text
To copy, and that no one seems distrustful
Around a court-recorder over-sexed,
And steamy as the quattrocento sewers?
His ginger hair revealed it at first sight!
They all look ginger? Maybe, to mere viewers;
But not to learned clerks with books to write.
