by Dan Campion

His lawyers leave, advise in vain,
Or steer him toward the pillory;
Poor Donald might as well retain
His old friends Bill and Hillary.

by David Smith

Good riddance to that snarling showman
ICE director Thomas Homan.
He himself now steals away
Who stole away the children of
Asylum seekers to display
An iron fist in iron glove.
Fearing for his confirmation
(Or causing fear in those above),
He puts this face on abdication:
Says, with irony sublime,
He’s off to spend more family time.

Once, this prince of brutal hacks
Told immigrants to watch their backs.
Now they, and I, will find it is
A deal more pleasant watching his.

by Jerome Betts

(The secretary general of the United Kingdom
Independence Party (UKIP*) compared it to
the Black Death after its vote collapsed in the
English council elections held on May 3, 2018. )

The analogy’s crude, but quite just.
Though UKIP has bitten the dust
Its toxin remains
And infects Tory brains
So they think leaving Europe’s a must.

*Pronounced “YOU-kip.”

by Brendan Beary

“‘My whole life has been a lie’: Sweden admits meatballs are Turkish”—The Guardian

A shout-out to our brethren to the south—it’s time we brought ’em in;
What we’ve been calling “Swedish meatballs” actually are Ottoman.
Three hundred years ago, they reached the Baltic from the Bosporus
(But no, we don’t intend to give them back—don’t be preposberous!)

by Chris O’Carroll

We’ve made a great bid for the World Cup
And we fully expect to be backed
By countries that value our friendship
And want to avoid getting whacked.

Our bid for the World Cup’s the best one
By far.  We expect strong support
From all of the best friends we count on
And are doing our best to extort.

by Jay Rogoff

(After Yeats’s “For Anne Gregory”)

Never could a nation,
Writhing in despair
At “sad” and “fake” pronouncements
Shot tweeting through the air,
Love you for your governing
And not your orange hair.

“But taking my Propecia,
I’ll over-comb with care
And go and bully Kim and Moon,
Giving them such a scare
They’ll opt for strolling arm in arm,
And not my orange hair.”

I met five prior Presidents
Who solemnly did swear
That they had read the Bill of Rights
And could as one declare
That Nobels go for bringing peace,
And not your orange hair.

by Julia Griffin

“Banned performance-enhancing supplements. Drug-resistant bacteria. Human fat. These are the disturbing new finds in an ‘autopsy’ of an enormous, 2,460-foot-long ‘fatberg’ found on the South Bank in Central London. It’s just one of 12 such greasy beasts currently clogging London’s sewer system. … Leftover cooking oil gets tipped down the sink. This is immediately attracted to the ‘wet ones’ that people insist on flushing down their toilets despite warnings not to do so. Together, they catch an enormous variety of gruesome discards: sanitary pads, condoms, needles. All have to be cleared by hand.”–News.com.au

Through London, so we hear, a strange
Report is running round
That something like a mountain range
Is swelling underground;

That tampons, half-digested pills
And fat from frying pans
Have fused in grey, forgotten hills
Or grunge Leviathans.

It’s true. They’re stuffing London’s drains,
Each bigger than a bus–
Or so they would, without the pains
Endured for you by us.

We are the Foemen of the Fat:
Fatburglars, if you will,
Who wrestle with the rubbish that
Could make all London ill;

We happy few, we shovelsmiths,
Who aim our picks and jets
At London’s monstrous monoliths
Of oil and serviettes.

Think not that company a joke
That hacks and squirts and delves
(O foolish, flushing London folk!)
To guard you from yourselves:

You’d else have learned, through punctured pipes,
How far your comfort leans
On needles, grease, polluted wipes,
And banned amphetamines.

by Pat D’Amico

A very large presence looms everywhere,
Hyping his book with his soul laid bare.
With clear intent and dubious candor,
He has pardoned the goose and is cooking the gander.

by Kevin Ahern

Nuts with guns increase my ire.
I really am a grump.
The only 45 I’d fire
Is known as Donald Trump.

by Mae Scanlan

(To the tune of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”)

Rudolph, The Don’s new mouthpiece,
Is combative, bold and gruff;
And, if you’ve ever heard him,
You could even call him tough.

All of the other lawyers
Failed to do the bigtime job;
So, Trump has chosen Rudolph,
Hoping he can solve the prob.

Ever since the Cohen plight
Trump has been uptight;
“Rudolph, with your nose of brown,
Can’t you somehow calm me down?”

So, here comes Giuliani,
Flying in to save the day;
Rest assured Ragin’ Rudolph
Cannot wait to join the fray.

by Dan Campion

Had Barbara turned the wheel of state
In place of eldest son and mate,
Both Georges would have led the cheer
For a pilot who could steer.

by Orel Protopopescu

Oh, green-haired, punk-rock turtle
on an ancient, family tree,
when did you first discover
you could breathe right where you pee?

And while we are conversing,
just one more question, please:
before your thin branch splinters,
will you tell us where you sneeze?

by Julia Griffin

SLIMEBALL, the President tweeted, again.
The former Director responded with STAIN.
NOT MORAL charged Comey. NOT SMART thundered Trump;
How sad such a friendship should end in a sump!
Once Comey was GUTSY. Now things are reversed,
And Trump has decided he’s really THE WORST;
Then Comey thought caution was part of the job:
He now compares Trump and his friends to THE MOB.
It’s tragic how sour the alliance has gone
Of Slimy J. Comey and Mafia Don;
But in their logomachy, each should find pride
In having such obvious right on his side.

by Phil Huffy

Near ball fields and the picnic park
where joggers glide and lovers gaze,
a train of excremental sludge
awaited landfill trucks for days.

The title “Alabamy Bound”
that once belonged to music, sweet
had been applied to tons of waste
fermenting in the evening heat.

What sorry leadership indeed,
what governmental laissez faire,
to leave the townsfolk crying “foul”
with little help to clear the air.

Though Yankee pot roast stirs the soul
and teases, fragrantly, the tongue
no accolades of any kind
were likely heaped on Yankee dung.

by Barbara Loots

So long, Raúl. Hola, Miguel.
Will Cuba go on thriving?
Will some keep dreaming of Fidel
and antique cars keep driving?

Oh no. The revolution’s done,
and communism sucks.
Let tourists throng the Malécon
and bring a zillion bucks!