by J. Hoy

You said that when the shootings start,
you’d run right in and do your part.
Well, Donald, if that much is true,
please let me hold the door for you.

by Julia Griffin

“[Participants] were also asked to rate on a scale how disgusted they were by a collection of statements linked to body odours such as ‘You are sitting next to a friend and notice that your feet smell strongly,’ and how emphatically they agreed with 15 statements linked to rightwing authoritarianism such as ‘Our country needs a powerful leader, in order to destroy the radical and immoral currents prevailing in society today.’ … The results reveal that rightwing authoritarianism was linked to a feeling of repulsion towards body odours, and that the link also underpinned a weak association between such feelings of disgust and support for Donald Trump.”—The Guardian

You’re sitting by a friend at a professional retreat,
And notice, rather forcefully, the odor of your feet.
Percentage-wise, how probably would you elect to say:
“A strong man at the helm is what our country needs today!”

You’ve come to see Miss Pimpleton for picking on your son,
And just as you’re correcting her, your nose begins to run.
Inspect your heart: statistically, what chance is there you’d wail:
“We need a chief, or these immoral currents will prevail!”

You’re dressed up in your Sunday best, just heading for your pew,
And something noisy happens and you’re pretty sure it’s you.
Please tell us how emphatically you think you would agree:
“Authoritative leadership’s the only kind for me!”

You’re waiting at the doctor’s, watching interviews on Fox,
When suddenly you feel a rash suggestive of the pox.
Now on a scale from one to ten: how loudly would you yell:
“Get out and vote for Trump or else this nation’s bound for Hell!”

by James Hamby

“Housing and Urban Development Secretary Ben Carson canceled the order after it was revealed his office decoration exceeded the legal budget of $5,000″—U.S. News & World Report

She told him of the limit,
She even told him why
They’d have to stay within it,
And a teardrop filled his eye.

“Five thousand’s not enough!
It’ll leave the office bare.
This budget limit’s tough—
I can’t even buy a chair!”

He cursed the wasteful crutch
That HUD gave to the poor:
“No mahogany hutch?
Then what’s our budget for?”

by Barbara Loots

Never watch a Roomba* if you want to keep your wits.
No chaos or uncertainty’s more probable than its.

When loosed upon a room to clean the floor’s entire expanse,
The Roomba, politician-wise, performs a crazy dance.

Its only wisdom is derived from bouncing off the walls,
Rebounding in whatever way the sensor first recalls,

And thus it never knows where it has been or what comes next
And seems to the observing mind perpetually perplexed.

Stymied in a corner or entangled in some fringes,
The Roomba halts completely and its inner world unhinges.

With bleats of incoherence it cries out for human hands
To lift it from the obstacles it never understands.

If you would drain a swamp or merely clean a dusty floor,
The aimless and unthinking are devices to ignore.

To keep your purpose clear and make the mad confusion stop?
Heave out the hapless Roombas and get busy with a mop.

* A robotic vacuum

by Edmund Conti

I married his daughter
And am now in hot water
Which will only get deeper
If I keep her.

Come, darling Ivanka,
Let’s flee to Sri Lanka.
We’ll make it our home.
Ommmmmmmmmmmm . . .

by Julia Griffin

“China bans letter N (briefly) from the internet as Xi Jinping extends grip on power”—The Guardian

Cofrotig Xi Jipig’s itet
(Efarious edeavour!)
To bar ad ba, the Iteret
Itoes: It’s Ow or Ever!

by Bob McKenty

Aw, Canada
(Women’s Hockey Medal Ceremony)
Another nation’s anthem in their ears,
They stand upon the podium in tears,
The weight of shame and silver on their chests.
In all the world they’re only second-bests.

The Cross-Country Skier
Past the finish line…. Total collapse!
Will they strike up her Anthem? Or Taps?

Curling
OMG! They throw 40-pound rocks in the house,
And even wield hammers! (It leaves one aghast.)
But give ’em their due: they sweep up, so don’t grouse.
(This shuffleboard knock-off is really a blast!)

Question for an Ice-Skating Commentator
What’s
A Lutz?

by Dan Campion

An apple for the teacher
Who sings and reads aloud,
Whose duties now may feature
The chance to do us proud
By blasting at intruders
Who terrorize the school.
(Let’s pray the sanctioned shooter’s
The one who wins the duel.)

by Julia Griffin

“What many people don’t understand, or don’t want to understand, is that Wayne, Chris [Cox] and the folks who work so hard at the @NRA are Great People and Great American Patriots. They love our Country and will do the right thing. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!” —
@RealDonaldTrump, February 22, 2018

Listen to Wayne, the stony-souled:
Don’t let this be a runaway train!
Crying white mothers are ratings gold.

Hear how the freedom-haters scold:
Can’t they respect the victims’ pain?
Listen to Wayne, the stony-souled.

Don’t imagine we’re going to fold;
We’re geared up with a new refrain:
Crying white mothers are ratings gold.

You want to have your thoughts controlled
By some red Euro-Socialist reign?
Listen to Wayne, the stony-souled.

The White House tweets to the world: Behold!
A Great American is our Wayne:
Crying white mothers are ratings gold,

But the NRA is the one foretold
To MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.
Listen to Donald, the bought and sold.
Crying white mothers are ratings gold.

by David Hedges

“South African lions eat ‘poacher,’ leaving just his head”
—BBC News headline, February, 2018

A poacher set out with the aim
Of dispatching South African game.
With his Nitro Express,
He was primed for success
And a shoo-in for fortune and fame.

The lions he happened to meet
Were delighted and made haste to eat
Both his lip-smacking haunch
And his succulent paunch,
Not to mention his hands and his feet.

The lions heard voices and fled
Without taking the late poacher’s head.
Their intent? To come back,
Mount his head on a plaque
For display on the wall of their den.

by Mae Scanlan

When there’s a dread disease with which we have to come to terms,
We fight to save its victims, and obliterate the germs.
Mass shootings, though, inspire the very opposite—it stuns;
We put aside the victims, and we fight to save the guns.
The NRA, with awesome clout, is in the catbird seat;
It’s way past time to call its bluff and bring about defeat.
Regarding those in Congress who support it, show no doubt:
The very soonest chance you get, go vote the bastards out.

by Edmund Conti

Of all the claims I’ve heard,
This one doesn’t thrill me:
“I didn’t do my homework.
My teacher’s gonna kill me.”

by Julia Griffin

“The National Rifle Association (NRA) deleted a tweet [from a gun maker] on Wednesday evening… . [It] featured a heart-shaped pillow with two guns resting on it. The caption read: ‘Give your significant other something they’ll appreciate this Valentine’s Day.'”—Business Insider, February 15, 2018

Red roses and pussy willow:
Think that will impress your date?
Two guns on a heart-shaped pillow:
Now that she’ll appreciate!

No-hopers and hogs give candy;
Bad hombres and drunks give wine;
Old Grandaddy types give shandy,
Or bunches of columbine;

Bouquets might have pleased her mother—
Chicks now want a bullet spray;
So give your significant other
An AK-9 Valentine’s Day!

by David Hedges

The military’s newest branch
Is seeking lovely young recruits.
Fox News predicts an avalanche
Of femmes with stunning attributes.

The President himself will choose
The candidates who score the best
In lengthy private interviews.
Then those who pass the swimsuit test

Will train at Mar-a-Lago’s gym
To march in lockstep, two by two,
And sing the U.S.C.S. Hymn,
“Red Lips, White Skin, and Eyes of Blue.”

by Bob McKenty

Intensely, like a seasoned pro,
The mogul skier braves the snow—
Attacks the washboard, potholed slope
That jars her body. Still, she’ll cope.
Another record is effaced!
(Next year she’ll have her knees replaced.)