by Ruth S. Baker

“China’s latest internet trend, the xuanfu tiaozhan, or “flaunt your wealth challenge.”
Also known as the “falling stars” challenge, the trend involves participants posting photos of themselves face down with their possessions scattered around them, after apparently having fallen down a flight of stairs or out of a sports car.”—The Guardian

So this is me, face down in Paris, France,
With Rolex watch and Donna Karan pants:
They’re Ray-Bans by my head,
And round them, nicely spread,
Address cards from top names in high finance.

The Lamborghini out of which I fell
Is also in the picture, LOL:
At 3.4K views,
I’m a star in Jimmy Choos,
With a compound-fractured pelvis by Chanel.

by Chris O’Carroll

The dead writer story they made up today
Is better than yesterday’s story, and way
Better than claiming the guy didn’t die,
Which sounded as lame as a lie Trump might try.

by Julia Griffin

“The price of mince would go up 50% in the event of no Brexit deal, the meat industry has warned.”—The Guardian

I’m reassessing Brexit since
I heard about the price of mince.
What is it builds the British soul
But burgers and spaghetti bol,
Lasagna bake and shepherd’s pie?
Without these things our hearts run dry;
Must we resort to pig or horse
To bolster our tomato sauce?
The nation runs, we must avow,
On cheap supplies of shredded cow:
Let’s not mince words!—though, with no deal,
They soon may be our only meal.

by Dan Campion

“In essence, this structure appears to act as a kind of editor….”—Jon Hamilton in “The Underestimated Cerebellum Gains New Respect From Brain Scientists” on NPR

We’ve thought there’s no homunculus
Inside our brains, for ages;
Who’d guess there was, to edit us,
A reader of our pages,

A “little brain,” there, after all,
A sharp blue pencil genie,
To coddle, coax, correct, and call
To buy us a martini?

by Marshall Cobb

“McRib is back for a limited time.”—McDonald’s

If you’re a fan of food that’s faux
I know just where you ought to go.
It comes around but once a year
And now they say that time is here.
McRib is back, but not to stay.
Who knows when it will go away?
So get your slab of meat that’s mystery,
But hurry up before it’s history.

by Julia Griffin

“An image of Edmond de Belamy, created by a computer, has just been sold at Christie’s.”—
The Guardian

M. de Belamy, your lost,
Caliginous, unpupilled eyes
Peer from a square of gilt embossed
As from a carnival disguise.
Edmond! What is it that you seek?
Your stare is endless. Some have said
You staked your spirit at bézique;
Some say, in fact, that you are dead:
That what these gilded bars enshrine
Is nothing but an empty case.
Still others call you Frankenstein;
And some, behind your haunted face
Detect the sadness of AI:
Which could not live, so cannot die.

by Dan Campion

“Electrons are extremely round.”—Live Science 

They might have been shaped like a pear
Or Aphrodite’s derrière
Or like a pharoah’s pyramid
Or slick night-crawling annelid.

They could have been shaped like a book
Or like a Dalí chess-set rook
Or like a bobble-headed doll
Or like your cocker spaniel.

Our sages, though, once more astound:
Electrons are extremely round.

by Chris O’Carroll

“To murder and chop up a guy from the press?
That’s my kind of statecraft,” Trump has to confess.
“I swoon for a prince when he’s ruthless enough.
For now, though, I’ll act disapproving and tough.”

by Bruce Bennett

“Sesame Street’s Big Bird puppeteer retires.”—BBC News

Big Bird, Big Bird,
where will you go?
You’re not a snowbird.
There’s no snow.

There’s just a world
that’s cold and gray.
Big Bird, Big Bird
is gone today.

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.