“If American democracy can survive 10 years of Greta Thunberg’s scolding, you guys can survive a few months of Elon Musk.” —J.D. Vance, Vice-President of the United States, to the European Union
For ten whole years we’ve wanted her to can it, This nagger droning on about the planet. Oceans and forests, birds, some sort of bear, Plastic inside the food chain. Scare, scare, scare. Though whittled down by Biden to a husk, Democracy survived, as you will Musk. Elected, no, but surely you prefer His RIPs to elegies from her, And here’s a bonus: if these “crises” grow, NOAA’s extinct, so no one has to know.
“’Please, Philadelphia, I implore you as your mayor: Do not climb light poles or anything else,’ Parker said at a news conference about [Super Bowl] celebration preparations.” —NBC
Spike the lamp posts, grease the poles, Lock down everything that rolls? Cordon off the boulevard? Call the Pennsylvania guard?
Think of all the funds we’d save If our fans would just behave.
Earth’s poor need USAID? Earth’s richest man does not agree: The agencies have all gone dumb, Which means belt-tightening for some. Pubescent geeks have changed the locks; Now drugs are sitting on the docks In Port Sudan: you say they’ll rot? Tell one who cares, for DOGE does not. The scientists are muzzled, so The climate’s fine, for all we’ll know; We’ve lost the Green New Deal because It’s Biden’s scheme, like paper straws. Musk knows his DOGE will make mistakes: He goose-steps on, while Congress shakes; The law may try to do its bit, But Thomas is on top of it. The GOP observes and cowers, Applauding as it’s stripped of powers; We too can see our rights decreased For all of four more years! At least.
“The MAGA backlash against Trump’s crypto grab: ‘This is bad, and looks bad'” —The Guardian
It’s nice to know we found the point where MAGA draws a line (Not insurrection, sadly, but okay, whatever, fine). A currency untraceable’s attractive, I suppose, To any modern con man, not to mention crypto bros, Yet Donnie’s crummy coins don’t strike the latter as a gift— Oh glory, hallelujah, even they now spot the grift!
“Some discoveries are hard to stomach—literally… [A] 66-million-year-old vomit fossil [has been found]… Regurgitalites, or fossilized vomit, are rare… [This one is attributed to] a Cretaceous-era predator, possibly a fish…” —NBC
Jiggery-pukery, certain discoveries have the potential to make us feel sick.
What can we say about fossilized remnants of ichthyological vomitus? Ich.
“Donald Trump Jr accused of killing protected bird in Venice lagoon: Italian politician said a video posted online showed Trump Jr with a ruddy shelduck while on hunting trip” —The Guardian
If somebody says to you “Venice,” What image occurs to you first? Pink marble or shadowy menace? Fair Portia or Shylock, accursed? Bellini, or Otway preserving? Du Maurier not looking now? A Doge (why should that be unnerving?)? A mask on a gondola’s prow? Brave Corvo pursuing completion? Sweet Milly pursued by Kate Croy? Calvino, that meta-Venetian? Poor Aschenbach’s beautiful boy? Or do you, despite such bombarding From artists in oils and in words, Now find yourself glumly regarding Trump Junior demolishing birds?
“[Canadian police] have arrested six people after an investigation into the theft of [over $60,000 worth] of butter and ghee…” —City News
When hooligans flee with a fortune in ghee, And innocent chefs are left stranded, The victimized shops seek the help of the cops, Who catch the cartel yellow-handed.
“Japan rolls out new recycled toilet paper made from used diapers” —GoodGoodGood
The latest of trends for maintaining rear ends Is good news for all of us wipers. Instead of abusing our forests, they’re using Recycled components from diapers.
Pandemics bring hoarding, inflation: affording The tissue gets harder each year. With options for cleaning while seated and leaning, Those troubles are all to the rear.
Instead of polluting, we’re now substituting The paper we use every day. But since I’m not happy with some stranger’s nappy, I think I’ll install a bidet.
“Starting in late fall each year, migrating newts have to cross a public road that divides their forested hillside habitat from their spawning ground in a nearby [lake] … Now about 80 volunteers strong, the grassroots group [Chileno Valley Newt Brigade] has for six years rescued more than 22,300 Pacific newts…” —NPR
They arrest me in the beams of their flashlights; they ferry me across the asphalt.
They commission habitat studies; they dream of building tunnels underneath the road for me.
Yea, though cars may claim my tail or leg, a Brigade volunteer still scoops what remains of me off the pavement, comforted by my regenerative power.
The volunteer deposits me back where I was born; its waters embrace me; my spawn drop lakewards.
Why do these strange diurnal creatures follow me every migration of my life? They still believe in those grand old virtues of mercy and kindness, through selfless acts made new(t).
