“Eau de Fido: Dolce & Gabbana launches luxury perfume for dogs.” —The Times
There is no if or but,
A malodorous mutt
Is a creature it’s best not to meet.
But my God! On what grounds
Can a perfume for hounds
Be decently sold on the street?
Yet a king of couture
Has come up with a “cure,”
To ensure darling Fido won’t stink.
He thinks his solution
Beats simple ablution.
The fellow should visit a shrink!
This distasteful debut
Is a step, in my view,
On the road to olfactory Hell.
From dachshund to husky,
Let’s keep our mutts musky,
And doggedly au naturel.
“More Chinese swimmers [who] secretly tested positive… for trace amounts of an anabolic steroid… were cleared [by] the Chinese Anti Doping Agency (CHINADA)… The World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) later confirmed the basic details of the report… [The case] has sent ripple effects throughout the anti-doping community. …
[T]he U.S. Anti-Doping Agency [USADA]… repeatedly [said the WADA attempted] to sweep the Chinese doping cases under the rug.” —USA Today
“Pole Vaulter Alysha Newman Twerks After Winning Medal at Paris Olympics” —People
She clears the bar then wiggle-wags her booty.
Athleticism is a thing of beauty.
The dance in which she chooses to indulge
Reminds us sport’s not all about the bulge.
Olympian’s an every-gender role.
A vaulter can soar high without a pole.
“Trump says he doesn’t care if he mispronounces Kamala Harris’s name” —The Independent
“I like mispronouncing her name.
With me, it is always the same. I do as I please With people like these.
For me, it’s all part of the game.
But wait. What is this? Something’s wrong.
There’s yelling and cheering. A throng Is laughing. How rude! It’s I who am booed
And mocked, and they’re playing along!
Though the Dems have umpteen childless women,
Lots of shoulders where cats come to cry;
Though there’s cash pouring in through the windows,
There’s a stump where campaigns quickly die;
So a cunning old Donkey gave warning:
“If you want to be sure of applause:
Ay, ay, ay, ay
Take this Walz, take this Walz,
Take this Walz with the clean-shaven jaws!
Oh we want him, we want him, we want him,
On a chair with a dad’s magazine,
Saying: “Son, want a ride to Home Depot?”
Or unblocking some pesky machine;
He’ll have corndogs at six for his dinner,
Where he’ll wink at his wife: “Ain’t life grand?”
Ay, ay, ay, ay
Take this Walz, take this Walz:
He likes tuna so long as it’s canned;
Ay, ay, ay, ay
If it’s broken, he’s got it in hand.”
“Musket Balls Found in Massachusetts Recall ‘Shot Heard Round the World’” —The New York Times
Thoreau, and others, missed a few
Spent rounds that had lain by
The old North Bridge? What else is new?
So many bullets fly
Throughout this country, where our guns
Are sacrosanct, lead shot
Turned up in Concord scarcely stuns.
We’d wonder had it not.
Of clear positions I might take,
There’s one I own appears opaque:
He’s Hitler—no, the people’s voice—
He’s heroin—our perfect choice.
I’ve been this way since back at Yale,
Before my soul was up for sale:
I hedge my bets in every race
And try to cover every base.
I loathe this most immoral man,
Yet call myself his biggest fan;
I wasn’t sure, but now I’m surer—
Goodness gracious, what a fuehrer!
“Mr. Trump… insisted on Friday that Ms. Harris wanted a federal law ‘for abortion to rip the baby out of the woman in the eighth, ninth month and even after birth’…” —The New York Times
Macduff was from his mother’s womb
Untimely ripped, near fatally;
But even he was spared the doom
Of being ripped post-natally.
“Monaghan farmer plays matchmaker with ‘lonely hearts’ snails” —The Independent
It’s hard for snails to write a dating profile
That makes them seem a gastropod worth knowing,
’Cos owns own home is pretty much a given,
And so are likes nights out and easy-going.
“Corpse shortage due to rise in Scottish medical students…” —BBC
The news report revived an old ambition:
I’ve often thought of taking up a trade,
And all I’d need are garbarge bags, a headtorch,
Some VapoRub, a barrow and a spade.
