by Bruce Bennett
Sheriff Comey’s back in town.
Gonna take The Big Guy down,
Gonna make him face the Law,
Corner him with Shock and Awe.
Man, there’s gonna be a fray!
No one wants to miss the day,
No one wants to miss the fuss.
He is back, and he’s for us.
We know how the Sheriff shoots.
Trump is quaking in his boots.
He is frantic in his tweets:
Foaming, frothing, he repeats
Lie on lie on lie on lie . . .
Let him writhe and let him try
Any trick he ever could—
None will do him any good.
None will help him. Now’s the time
He will pay for every crime.
In the shoot-out, he will fall.
Truth will stand up, straight and tall,
Tall as Comey, strong as Fate.
We’ll no longer have to wait.
Trump is toast. He will go down.
Sheriff Comey’s back in town!
by Julia Griffin
“The Queen’s last remaining corgi has died, it has been reported. Willow, who was almost 15, was put down after suffering from cancer, making it the first time the monarch has not owned a corgi since the end of the second world war.”–The Guardian
“Mine eyes itch. Doth that bode weeping?”–Othello IV iii
A courtier sat sighing
Where a bowl used to be
Sing O the Queen’s Willow:
White fur on his waistcoat
And also on his knee
Sing Willow, Willow, Willow.
“Oh where”, he sang sadly,
“Has ever been seen
Sing O the Queen’s Willow
A corgi so gorgeous
At almost fifteen?
Sing Willow, Willow, Willow.
Dear beast, you were famous
Throughout the EU
Sing O the Queen’s Willow:
The Commonwealth loved you,
America too
Sing Willow, Willow, Willow;
But one alone felt, who
Will never disclose
Sing O the Queen’s Willow,
The warmth of your heart and
The wetness of your nose
Sing Willow, Willow, Willow.
Sing O the Queen’s Willow,
Willow, Willow, Willow:
The worth of sweet Willow
The Queen alone knows.”
by James Hamby
“A Pennsylvania school district is arming its teachers with 600 miniature baseball bats”—cnn.com
Bats and stones
May break your bones
But guns will fucking kill you.
by Brendan Beary
“Argentinian officers fired after claiming mice ate half a ton of missing marijuana”— The Guardian
Wee sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie,
Have yoursel’ a reefer feastie!
Man’s a brute, but aye, at least he
Provides ye food;
And what a food—sae crisp an’ tasty,
An’ you’re like, “Duuuuuude!”
Fra Ayrshire down to Buenos Aires,
Who but mice—ye furry faeries—
Make for better emissaries
Espousin’ pot?
(Tho’ true, now some constabulary’s
In quite a spot!)
So put some trippy tunes on then,
An’ party on—for who knows when
A buzz like this should come again?
Live in the now;
The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
Are like, “Oh, wow!”
by Dan Campion
In Reversal, Boehner Joins Cannabis Corporation Board
—New York Times
We find the rule couldn’t be plainer
In the cannabis case of John Boehner:
The Speaker evolved
When smoke rings resolved
A vision of corporate retainer.
by Orel Protopopescu
Before he ran the EPA,
Scott Pruitt liked to sue it.
A regulation reared its head?
Scott Pruitt had to screw it.
So now he heads the EPA.
(He isn’t there to woo it.)
He wants to change its challenge coin:
Less EPA. More Pruitt.
A soundproof phone booth, fancy desks?
Nothing’s too good for Pruitt.
A first-class trip to Italy?
(He wasn’t eating suet.)
Cheap rental from a lobbyist
who now has come to rue it?
Three million on security?
(Too many folks hate Pruitt.)
Accomplice on his greedy sprees?
Perrotta helped him do it.
Now secret emails raise alarms…
It looks like Pruitt blew it.
by Edmund Conti
He does what Trump bids
And never once bristles.
He’ll return to his kids.
We’ll be spared his epistles.
by Julia Griffin
“Meghan Markle ‘Can Play Herself’ on The Crown, Says Producer”
—Harper’s Bazaar
Dear Meghan/Dear Ma’am,
As we start to review
The qualifications you bring to play you,
We’d like to define, before going to town,
Your duties in playing yourself on The Crown.
The rôle you request’s not immovable yet:
The senior parts are already quite set
(Diana’s the diva and Fergie’s the clown);
There’s slightly more scope playing you on The Crown:
However, our viewers (this has to be stressed)
Don’t like their Americans stiff or repressed.
The British need only their eyebrows to frown;
But you will be playing yourself on The Crown.
Your close-ups with Catherine (you’ll know her as “Kate”)
Will teasingly hint at Alliance-Plus-Hate;
And if there’s a scene where you wear the same gown,
Remember, you’re playing yourself on The Crown.
Last winter, your ratings were brought to low ebb
By choice of a hat which was mocked on the Web.
You’ll see in your contract: No wearing of brown
As long as you’re playing yourself on The Crown.
The playing of self, without let-up or flaw,
Is really real life for your Granny-In-Law:
But acting in private won’t bring the renown
On offer for playing yourself on The Crown.
We hope the above will have clarifed things;
And last, since our lawyers are cautious round kings,
We need to be sure, or the whole deal goes down:
You’ll play yourself playing yourself on The Crown.
by Chris O’Carroll
I’ll shove a poker up his ass.
They’re rabid. Shoot them dead on sight.
Some rape and murder talking points
From voices on the pro-gun right.
Then, when the advertisers bail,
A Foxy voice is heard to screech,
Our side is being victimized
By Stalinists who hate free speech.
by Brendan Beary
“Woman plays flute while undergoing brain surgery”—UPI
Some parts of her skull are drilled open.
No worries—she’s quite resolute!
While the surgeons are poking around in her brain,
She accompanies them on the flute.
I’ve copied the link to this story;
I’m tucking it safely away
To retrieve when my kids give a feeble excuse
Why they just couldn’t practice today.
by David Hedges
Dear Don,
You’ve gone and done some crazy things,
You and your crew of ding-a-lings.
My oligarchs begin to squawk.
Let’s sit down, face to face, and talk.
Dear Vlad,
I’m glad I’m going to get a chance
To dine and dance, and sing, and prance,
With all those sweetie pies I knew
The last time I sat down with you.
Dear Don,
Come on, I’m serious this time.
If Mueller pins you with a crime
And those who own you wind up squeezed,
They’re apt to be a bit displeased.
Dear Vlad,
My Dad, when he was in a fix,
Would hook up with a bunch of chicks,
And everybody would undress.
What better way to deal with stress?
Dear Don,
Your swan song, at the end, will be
An unrepentant guilty plea.
To be successful as a crook,
You can’t keep acting like a schnook.
Dear Vlad,
So sad. I thought that we were pals.
But will you still provide the gals?
My all-time favorite is the spanker.
I never found the words to thank her.
by Julia Griffin
“Scientists suggest a giant sunshade in the sky could solve global warming”—
The Guardian
Bring on the man-made sunshade,
To block the SUV
(That’s Solar Ultra Violet)
And keep us strap-mark free!
This stratospheric beachware,
Informed consensus states,
May really save our bacon
Before it conflagrates.
It may be controversial;
It may suggest sci-fi,
Deflecting inbound sunlight
With awnings in the sky;
But rather than get heated,
Let’s welcome and extol
This elegant salvation,
The cosmic parasol:
For nothing else can save our hides
From burning hydrogen
Besides Scott Pruitt’s EPA
(That’s Earthlings, Pray. Amen).
by James Hamby
Oh, Donald, when you tweet on trade
The Dow goes in a spiral.
Before the markets can recoup,
Your nonsense has gone viral.
See, Donald, every other Prez
Knew how to shut his mouth,
instead of spouting threats on trade
that might send markets south.
I’ve noticed that you’re kind of rich—
Why don’t you buy a clue?
Your uselessness is sadly clear
To everyone but you.
by Brendan Beary
(after Kipling)
“Sergio Garcia hits five balls into water, cards record-setting 13 at the Masters”—OregonLive.com
If you can keep your head when all about you
Have watched your every shot go in the drink
Till even ardent fans begin to doubt you;
If you can stare at failure and not blink;
If you can face Misfortune running riot
And mocking your attempts to stand your ground
As cheering falls away to awkward quiet,
But stay composed, and finish out your round:
If you, returning champ, can be so humbled,
And last year’s trophy gives no shelter now,
Yet persevere—no matter how you’ve stumbled—
As best your irons and mettle will allow;
If you can bear humiliation’s stinging,
And sign your card, and own the sad misdeed,
Yet, with tomorrow’s sunrise, come back swinging,
Play on—you’ve all the balls you’ll ever need.
by Gail White
Don’t know why
There are women I can’t buy,
Stormy Daniels…
I wanted loyalty like a spaniel’s…
Now I worry all the time.
Used to be
When you gave a woman money
You could say, “Keep quiet, honey.”
Now they sue ya,
Doin’ bad stuff to ya…
I worry all the time.
There’s also Karen
Whose affections I was sharin’…
Wants to tell her story too.
They say I threatened vi’lence
Just to buy their silence…
Hey, do I look threatening to you?
Don’t know why
Women got so hard to buy…
Their interviews with Cooper
Have me swearin’ like a trooper…
I worry all the time.
