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.

by Brendan Beary

A California judge says coffee beans
Have toxins known as harmful to our genes,
So Starbucks cups we purchase every morning
Should have a boldface anti-cancer warning.
But now I’m facing, from my morning brew,
A Catch- (or Cappuccino-) 22:
The times when I should pay that warning heed,
I’m frankly not alert enough to read.

by Julia Griffin

“A French waiter fired for being ‘aggressive, rude and disrespectful’ says his behaviour wasn’t out of line—he’s just French. Guillaume Rey, who worked at a Vancouver restaurant on Canada’s Pacific coast, filed a complaint with British Columbia’s Human Rights Tribunal against his former employer, claiming ‘discrimination against my culture.’ … In alleging discrimination Rey said French culture just ‘tends to be more direct and expressive.'”—The Guardian

You say I am aggressive, hein?
You’ve dared to call me rude?
You think I’m penitent? De rien;
Va-t-en and eat your food

(So called). If you’d the least soupçon
Of cultural respect,
You’d say instead, mon pauvre con,
“Expressive” and “direct.”

You hate expressiveness? Eh bien,
It is la France you hate,
Petit crétin de Canadien.
For one snatched dinner plate,

One glutton speeded up un peu,
Or aided, malgré lui,
With some expressive word ou deux,
You want me out? Tant pis:

I’ll prove myself a true Français,
Whatever my locale!
That’s all we have to say, chez Rey.
See you au tribunal.

by David Hedges

The Prez drops Wednesday’s cable news,
Whose anchors show him no respect,
And watches Roseanne put the screws
To alt-left losers who refuse
To bend their knees and genuflect.

Her sister Jackie plays the fool,
The left-wing bird with half a brain
Who perches on her ducking stool
While making faces, dribbling drool,
And croaking like a whooping crane.

Poor Dan is caught between two rocks,
The Wealthy and the Working Class.
One fries his eggs and darns his socks;
The other flocks with chicken hawks
And doesn’t know his ass from grass.

Dan gives the one he lives with breaks,
Tiptoeing down the center stripe,
Ignoring boring bellyaches.
Roseanne and Don? A pair of flakes
Who share their love affair with hype.

by Jerome Betts

(The captain and vice-captain of the Australian Test team in South Africa have been sent home and banned from playing for a year because of their role in ball-tampering.)

You see the green-capped bowler scampering
To field the bright red ball he nearly caught?
One side of it he’s polishing and pampering,
The other, roughing up, as he’s been taught—
With no “Not cricket!” scruples hampering—
A batsman may record a big fat nought
Through swing enhanced by cover-tampering.

by James Higgins

I Googled “Stormy Weather,”
being keen on Lena Horne.
But I’ll be bound: all Google found
was Stormy Daniels porn.

I Googled “Let the stormy clouds…”
from Singin’ in the Rain.
The engine’s spin continued in
a Stormy Daniels vein.

I Googled “Stormy Monday Blues.”
(I love when “Shorty”* blows.)
But no such luck: poor Google’s stuck
on Stormy sans her clothes.

“Storm trooper” and “Storm warning” searches
yielded like results.
What’s all this show? The “need to know”
of curious adults?

*A trumpet solo by Maurice “Shorty” McConnell is featured
in the 1942 Earl Hines and His Orchestra recording
of this jazz classic. (From Wikipedia)

by Mae Scanlan

Baseball’s beginning as basketball ends;
The diamonds of baseball are this girl’s best friends!