by Chris O’Carroll

NATO was one of those things
That I didn’t know about much.
Congress was, too. So was health care
And science and history and such.

I’m big talk backed up by small knowledge.
I’m ignorant. I’m unaware.
And what I don’t know’s not the worst of it,
Believe me! I don’t even care.

by Douglas G. Brown

Since April, there’s been talk of booting May,
Though she’s convinced that she’ll survive the day
That’s scheduled to occur in early June.
Will she prevail, or will her party swoon?

I have no clue, but I can still remember
How Yankeeland was Trumped in cold November,
And though we now are warming up to summer,
The Leftists here persist in whining, “Bummer.”

Be you a cynic or a true believer,
Elections can create a torrid fever
Which contradicts all logic, rhyme, and reason;
But human folly’s never out of season.

by Dan Campion

Not only is he loutish, crude,
And given to vain boasts,
He’s spawned a spoiled and greedy brood
And named some to high posts.
Besides according facts wide berth
In favor of bald lies,
He won’t disclose how much he’s worth
And flirts with foreign spies.
He’ll change direction on a dime,
Pick up the dime, and keep it.
He’s coated enemies in slime.
Low slander? He repeats it.
For all of this, we love him so,
Our better angels swan.
They must mistake our hero, though:
The classic Star Trek’s Khan!

by Orel Protopopescu

There’s nothing titillating in a tittle,
a silly-sounding word for what’s so little,
you might say that it’s almost microscopic.
So why should I expound upon this topic?

All things accrue, one tittle at a time,
and tasty snacks may add up to a crime.
The sugar that once made you energetic,
now plots to make you plump and diabetic.

For good or ill, a tittle has the power
to make or break a sentence or an hour.
Combined with other tittles, then, who knows?
An air force can be grounded when it snows.

One Bang! transformed the infinitely small
into space-time, our paradise and fall,
ballooning from a tittling spark that roared
to form vast galaxies, still unexplored.

Now spring advances with unseemly speed,
precipitating growths from mutant seed,
and toiling tittles, feeling less than blessed,
make revolutions, or at least, protest.

So tittles of the world, rise up, unite,
before some self-inflating troglodyte,
the tittles of his brain ablaze with lust,
turns sub-atomic tittles into dust.

by Chris O’Carroll

That ship we said was headed north,
A symbol of our strong objection
To Kim Jong-un? It’s really going
In the opposite direction.

The era of fake leadership,
Rabid Fox fake punditry,
And whiny rants about “fake news”
Now brings us fake geography.

by Claudia Gary

Watch April in labor.
Watch Oliver pace.
Watch Missile Tests slide down
to second, third place.

Front hooves have emerged.
What cute little knees!
I don’t want a war,
I want one of these.

While baby’s legs hang,
Mom stops for a snack.
Why can’t that long tongue
give the White House a whack?

When hotheads prevail,
stability sours.
This calf soon will crash-land,
then walk within hours,

upstaging its mom–
but she won’t go ballistic.
She’s caring and calm,
not at all narcissistic.

Is April to blame
for stealing the show?
Let world leaders learn
what giraffe mothers know.

by Robert Schechter

There once was a man named O’Reilly
Who conducted himself rather vilely.
For years he’d harass.
But they fired his ass,
So this limerick concludes with a 🙂

by John Whitworth

Air: The Wiliiam Tell Overture

Come away, come away, we will not stay.
Let us drink to the health of Theresa May:
She’s the lass with the class for this glorious day.
It’s the day that we dreamed would come.

It’s an end to the EU prospect drear.
It’s an end to the lies of Project Fear.
Now we’re out, they must tout for a new career.
It’s the day that they all succumb.

Every boff, every prof, every mandarin,
They all said we were dead, that we could not win,
That we’d have second thoughts when the sky fell in.
How they wish that they’d all kept mum.

Every hireling hack, every goof with a gong,
Every deadbeat repeating the same old song,
Repeat after me, you were just plain wrong
And you’re out on your lefty bum.

by Jerome Betts

Where are the beards of ancient might
From deepest sable to snow-white?
So many egos were once bolstered
By jawlines copiously upholstered.

Fine-spun, or of a rope-like strength,
Neat, shaggy, flowing, navel-length,
The great and good could earn top dollars
With beavers fit for ayatollahs.

Charles Darwin, Alfred Tennyson,
Had growths that seemed to run and run,
While Dr Grace’s chest of matting
Lent awesome force to England’s batting.

One fact that few can dare deny −
Barefaced still collocates with lie.
Would voters find less cause for doubting
Elected members who keep sprouting?

But, sadly, no. Ms. Brex-Crex-Crex
May change her mind, but not her sex
And what the POTUS spreads among us
Can’t be disguised by facial fungus.

by Mae Scanlan

His name is Sean, the “briefing” guy;
He tries to “splain” each White House lie.
But he makes errors on his own;
Some not so bad, some quite fullblown.
With every blunder, every gaffe,
One wonders why he’s on the staff.
But on he goes, day out, day in,
Presenting news with Spicey spin,
And fielding the reporter’s lob;
It’s obvious he hates this job.

by Timothy Steele

When we were school kids and our teachers said
That our democracy was so designed
That anybody could be President,
This probably wasn’t what they had in mind.

by Dan Campion

For we will consider our dog Magnus.
For he is the servant of We the People and duly and daily serving us.
For he pricks us to remember Greatness abounding that he alone can retrieve.
For our livelihoods are flown in gusts of wind but we hear him summon back the winds.
For our eyelids heavy with the dust of poppy obscure his Messes.
For our ears turned lead by his growls blunt the most outrageous Lies.
For he sees far for us with sober eyes and hears keenly for us with sharp gold-fringed ears.
For rival packs are wary of his cunning.
For he is less rabid than some of the others.
For he contradicts himself, very well, he contradicts himself.
For he marks his territory without shame.
For he makes shrewd compact with the Wolves to guard the Flock.
For we admire brute strength and do not apologize for that.
For he does not apologize.
For he keeps the People’s watch in the night against the Adversary and sends tweets against him.
For even when tweeting he is no canary.
For the camel cannot rival him in stamina nor the bear in tenacity.
For he bounds fetchingly with the poodles in the gated dog park.
For Jack London nor John Steinbeck nor Walt Disney could invent him.
For the jackals and weasels fear only bared fangs.
For strokes properly applied make him affectionate and genial but poorly applied raise his dander—Poor Magnus! poor Magnus! The fleas have nipped thy flanks.
For we bless the big names on Fox that Magnus feels better.
For fleas have fleas, as he knows, and marshals the tribes into circuses.
For he makes common cause with canines from the tall timber to the steppes.
For he grabs Pussy and does not blush to announce it, and if he did we would not see the blush through the bronze.
For his coat is of a coarseness and a fineness uncommon.
For he can pursue a golf ball.
For he can bite.