“Conkers cheating row as men’s champion found with steel chestnut: David Jakins [“King Conker”] says metal replica discovered in his pocket was only ‘for humour value’” —The Telegraph
Out of the green, o’er-prickled case,
As glossy as the noblest steed,
It swings in might, till all give place
To my unconquerable seed!
Confronted by the strongest foe,
It would not deign to dodge the act,
Prevailing with a single blow:
A little dented, but uncracked.
What though a rival, sick with spite,
Found in my garb a seed of steel?
That was for jest and not for fight,
And we shall win upon appeal.
It matters not how losers sore
Like Johnson-Ferguson demur:
Roan Beauty triumphs! And the corps
Of kings and conquerors concur.
They’ve grown accustomed to his hate…
They call it “riling up the news.”
They love the music of his wails,
the Molotov cocktails
of threats and cries,
transparent lies.
They know he’d never do that crap.
It’s just the way he likes to schmooze…
He promised lots of stuff before
that never made it past his lips.
Surely only fools would think
he’d cash in all his chips.
They’ve grown accustomed to his nice,
his synonym for White,
accustomed to his hate…
They are so used to hear him say
to them, “I love you,” every day…
his hos, his lows,
his lists of foes
are second nature to them now,
like getting all their news from X.
And they’re so grateful he’s a man
who can keep women in their place,
raping them with feudal laws
and, lordly, by His Grace,
they’ve grown accustomed to a boar
who’s “fascist to the core,”
accustomed to his hate…
“Woman Who Tried to Smuggle 29 Turtles Wrapped in Socks Pleads Guilty: A resident of Hong Kong was caught while paddling across a lake from Vermont to Canada in an inflatable kayak with the Eastern box turtles in a duffle bag…” —The New York Times
Twenty-nine is quite a haul!
Fourteen pairs of socks in all…
Plus, one lone soul without a mate.
(My laundry mirrors Turtlegate.)
“NASA Launches Europa Clipper to Explore an Ocean Moon’s Habitability” —The New York Times
Off for Europa! It will take it years,
But what the Clipper spacecraft “sees” and “hears”
Will give us knowledge precious and profound—
Provided, that is, we are still around.
“Emmanuel Macron: We will fight hard to keep Emily in Paris in France: Hugely successful Netflix show has been a boon to French tourism but latest season takes events to Rome
… [According to Macron:] ‘Emily in Paris in Rome doesn’t make sense.’” —The Guardian
Shall I say what I feel for this timeless ville,
As I stuff my croissants with clichés?
Though eternal it’s not, it beats Rome by a lot
And it merits this twofold praise:
I love Emily in Paris in Paris,
I love Emily in Paris in la France,
I love queuing for the Louvre in the Louvre,
I love Sartre with his oeuvre, said as “ouvre”;
I love Paris in Paris in the springtime,
I love Paris in Paris in the fall,
I love Paris in Emily in Paris,
And Charles de Gaulle de Gaulle de Gaulle de Gaulle de Gaulle.
“Graves could be reused under proposals to tackle lack of space for the dead” —BBC
“I’ve been in this graveyard for 100 years, And never heard stewards request volunteers To open their parcel to any, but worms— No dignified soul would agree to these terms! My plot needs some weeding, my box may be shoddy, But I will not share it with some other body!”
“Well, friend, your descendants (who couldn’t be found)
Neglected to safeguard this small piece of ground.
And please understand this idea wasn’t mine—
Some real estate manager fed us a line
Inflating the money my children would save,
If they would agree to this “slightly” used grave.
You’d better accept being double-interred,
For soon enough, we will be getting a third.”
“Wrinkles reveal whether elephants are left- or right-trunked, study finds … The team say a left-trunker—which scoops objects towards the left side of its body—has more
wrinkles and longer whiskers on the left side of its trunk, with whiskers on the right worn down by
more frequent contact with the ground.” —The Guardian
Her mother and myself are simple, honest megafauna.
We make our sludge ourselves, don’t look to others for a sauna:
We trumpet when appropriate, perform our scoops and sprinkles,
And never even thought about the numbers of our wrinkles;
But now it seems we’re guilty of an all-time tusker-clunker:
We’ve somehow foisted on the herd a sinister LEFT-TRUNKER.
Of course she went to swishing class (the cost was something frightful);
We tried to stop her eating till she took a rightful biteful;
We wouldn’t let her wallow in a swamp where people knew her,
Whose numbers were quite rapidly becoming few, then fewer;
We chose at last to hide her in a sort of jungle bunker,
And prayed that there she’d cease to be a troublesome left-trunker.
We tried so hard to fight such aberrations of behaving:
We’d heard some say it’s sorcery, this crazy mirror-waving;
But gradually we came to first acceptance, then bravado,
Then honest pride: our calf, the pachydermic Leonardo!
And now we say: come raise your trunks and drink, until you’re drunker,
The untruncated future of our trusty, true left-trunker!
