“Could Twitter collapse or go bankrupt?” —The Guardian
The planet’s richest man has bought a firm Worth scarce a fourth of what he had to pay. It’s drowning Twitter’s boss in drang and sturm— The new Chief Twit is feeling broke today! An exodus of engineers who do Not want to be extremely hardcore nerds Depressed his advertising revenue To where now Twitter’s strictly for the birds … While Donald Trump’s restored account lies mute, If all who used to tweet should make the choice To move across to Mastodon and toot, Then who would still use Twitter as their voice Except the Twit? … Would he then tweet, to him, Remorse for buying Twitter on a whim?
“Feeling sad or hopeless, sleepier than usual and lacking energy in recent weeks? These mood changes could be a sign of seasonal affective disorder (SAD)…” —The Washington Post
It’s true that I suffer from SAD,
And I fear I may even go mad. But it’s not cold or snows Or how the wind blows.
It’s the fact that the news is so bad!
“A pair of worn-out Birkenstock sandals that Steve Jobs wore during the time he founded Apple in his garage have been sold at auction for $218,750. Julien’s Auctions originally estimated
the brown suede and leather sandals would go for $60,000 to $80,000.” —CBS News
That Apple fellow’s Birkenstocks
have brought a price which simply shocks.
One wonders how such footwear, used,
could fetch that much; I’m so confused.
Has anyone, to date, adored
the Florsheims worn by Henry Ford?
Did Patton’s boots have such a day?
Or Madame Curie’s loafers, eh?
Do students of fine art recall
the splattered sneaks of Marc Chagall?
It seems old shoes are best forgot.
The Ruby Slippers? Maybe not.
We’ve just seen off the Hazard,
The Horrible Hazard named Oz.
We knew him as a medical haz,
And that’s what his statecraft was.
If ever a meddlesome biz there is,
PA will inveigh: “That biz is his!
So let him graze his crudités because
We’re done with this snake-oil Santa Cloz: Diddledy-diddledy-dee!
We’ve just seen off the Hazard,
The Horrible Hazard named Oz!”
“ …visitors on Thanksgiving Day get to tour the farm, enjoy pie and hot cider, cuddle with the turkeys and feed them treats such as cranberries and grapes… ” —The Washington Post
“Come snuggle with a turkey.
We do at Gentle Barn.
Okay, yes, it is quirky,
but it’s rewarding. Darn,
Don’t say you won’t adore it,
but if it’s not for you,
we’ve got the answer for it.
Our cows will snuggle too.
So will our horses, donkeys,
our llamas, sheep, and goats.
You won’t see them as flunkies
as you cling to their coats.
You’ll see them as your brothers
and sisters. You’ll know why,
as you embrace those others,
we serve our turkeys pie.”
“Rise in back pain and long-term sickness linked to home working” —The Guardian
It’s the ergonomy, ye stooped! You spent Two years hunched over laptops on a bed, Settee or kitchen stool, and now you’re bent Too out of shape for office work instead. Home working wasn’t introduced to wreck Employment, but you had no Peloton Elliptical to stretch your back and neck, Relax your nerves and put a damper on Godawful posture twisting up your spine Or aggravating wrist and shoulder strain— Numb digits make it hard to type this line: Off sick today with carpal-tunnel pain … My moral’s clear: Be glad of your commute— You get away, and stretch yourself to boot!
“Hoppy IPA beers may lower risk of developing Alzheimer’s, study suggests” —The Independent
When barroom conversation starts to sputter—
A joke falls flat or someone makes a gaffe—
The married men will pull a face and mutter,
“My wife thinks I’m in here to have a laugh.”
But regulars are healthcare pioneers
Whose spouses really ought to thank, not curse, them
For selflessly consuming hoppy beers
So that their wives will never need to nurse them.
“‘Whisper list’ contains 40 politicians never to accept a drink from, MP claims” —The Guardian
Girl, find a public place, a park or station,
If you and he must talk of legislation.
Don’t meet him in his office or a bar
Or any place no other people are.
He wields a lot of power, so much leverage;
Decline if he should offer you a beverage,
For God knows what’ll happen if you drink.
(“Back-bench” he’s called, but not for what you think!)
