by Katherine Swett

Tippety-tappety
Congressman Anthony
can’t keep his fingertips
off of his screens.

Some might consider him
nymphet-maniacal,
sending his messages
only to teens.

by Ian Graham

Sologamy
Is the trend, I see.
Not She plus He
Nor He plus She
Nor He plus He
Nor She plus She
But Me plus Me
Till death Me do part
And My passionate heart
Stops beating as one,
Thus ending My fun.

Sologamy
Will set us all free.
Get off the shelf—
Marry yourself.
Fight urban growth—
Plight your own troth.
Do your own thing—
Wear your own ring.
The knot has self-tied.
You may now kiss your pride.

Well, each to his or her own, of course.
But what if it ends in a messy divorce?

by Jerome Betts

Some say the grandson of a Midlands yeoman
Foresaw a then small language fully grown—
That line he gave to Cassius, a Roman,
In states unborn and accents yet unknown!

Perhaps—but now, when off across the ocean
A leading actor on the global stage
Reveals to all his rudimentary notion
Of speech, some warn it’s near the seventh age.

by Chris O’Carroll

His clout was enough to arrange,
Via Twitter, an upset for Strange,
So the president thought.
When he learned it was not,
His tweet history started to change.

by Dan Campion

A Casanova Hef was not,
Nor Byron’s pet, Don Juan,
Nor Earl of Rochester (that sot).
Of rakes, Hef was a new one
Who riffled sheaves of eight-by-tens
And turned them into gold
That warmed the Cold War’s drafty dens
With sizzling centerfold.
While news blared cover-up, high crime,
And international feud,
Hef was the Courbet of his times,
The champion of the nude.
Let Venus be his elegy;
His relics, robe and pipe.
His influence? Dons won’t agree,
Except it’s blushing ripe.

by Julia Griffin

Hurricanes, earthquakes, nuclear flares:
But nothing so very real
As a billionaire telling millionaires
They are not allowed to kneel.

by Chris O’Carroll

The things that he likes about Nambia
Are, believe me, too many to list.
Of praise for the health care in Nambia
His applause mainly seems to consist.
The strides they’ve been making in Nambia
Are terrific ones, that is his gist.
He has much more knowledge of Nambia
Than of countries that really exist.

by Joanna Bird

RSPCA called to rescue lizard that turns out to be a dirty sock — The Independent, September 2017

Is it a rare type of pink stripy gecko,
Or some other lizardy reptile instead?
Surely it can’t be a dragon (Komodo)—
Enough to fill anyone’s family with dread!
But no, it’s a far more formidable foe:
A teenager’s sock lurking under the bed.

by Julia Griffin

The Dotard is a cross between a leopard and a deer:
A fulminating throat before a vulnerable rear.

by Mark Granier

Manafort,
scrambling for any port
in a storm, any vessel docked in Shit Creek,
asks only that it won’t leak.

Sessions
in secret, before a mirror, does his impressions
of Yoda
and Jayne Mansfield sipping a cream soda.

Kelly
managed to separate Trump from his favourite telly
but, when it came to Twitter,
had to conscript the wife, the bodyguard and the babysitter.

by Orel Protopopescu

He takes a swing at Hillary
when feeling lost or off his game.
He doesn’t need artillery.
A thumb will do. He has no shame.

Polls under par? Balls out of bounds?
Then why not hit her in the back?
His base adores the way it sounds,
the whoosh! each time he takes a whack.

Teed off by Mueller’s iron grip,
he searches through his bag of fun
for phantom clubs to let her rip—
this madman, cheat, a-hole-in-one.

by Damian Balassone

Blessed are the rich
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mock
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the psychotic
for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for power
for they will be filled.
Blessed are the pussy-grabbers
for they will be called children of God.

by Mae Scanlan

When health care and global unrest get you down,
When tax cuts and budget woes cause you to frown,
Just pause and consider: a few months, and then
William and Kate will be parents again!

by Estes Smith

I fled the flooding wrath of Irma
For higher, drier terra firma.
I wish I could as well outrun
The image of The Orange One.
But even TV screens in Burma
Project his tinted do and derma.
I’d rather see, at point of gun,
The chubby cheeks of Kim Jong Un.

by Jerome Betts

Vice-Chancellor, who rules today
My former seat of learning,
From what we’re told about your pay,
It’s now a seat of earning.