Averse1 to logic, Annie Finch
In argument won’t give an inch.
She’ll spar and duck and even clinch —
But change her mind? You’d need a winch. 2
2Subliminal pun: because of her birth date, apparently, Annie thinks she’s a witch.
R. I. P. GOVERNOR PAUL LE PAGE OF MAINE
The minority executive who said the N.A.A.C.P. can “kiss my butt!“ on Martin Luther King’s birthday.
Here lies “Kiss My Butt” Le Page —
The Right Wing thinks he’s all the rage,
But should he analyze a poll
It’s certain he would lose the whole.
Upon the Occasion of UConn’s Winning its Third National NCAA Basketball Men’s Championship on April 5th, 2011.
There once was a coach named Calhoun
Who pricked an enormous balloon
When he changed poor old Butler
Back into a scuttler
And returned the team to its cocoon.
THE BALLAD OF LAKE WOBEGON
“I think he's losing it: his monologues recently often center on fart jokes or adolescent moonings over girls in grade school.” — A native Minnesotan.
A fellow named Garrison Keillor
Decided to be the big dealer
Of free public verse
More prolix than terse
And full of quotidian flea-lore.
He delved in review books to find
Material that might be mined
And put out to flog
On his PBS blog
Where “excellence” was undefined.
The peots he chose were doggone
Happy to be Wobegon —
They fawned willy-nilly
And, though they were silly,
They always had peoms to pawn.
The songs that he loved were so bad
They smelled like a midden of shad
But sounded much worse
Than even his verse
And drove musicologists mad:
One, “Jesus Put a Yodel in My Soul,” fell
As flat as a pancake in Hell.
Folks wanted to scoff,
But it so turned them off
That they spewed and began to expel,
But he played it again the next day!
The hairs of his hearers turned gray,
Except for some mules
Who giggled like fools
And asses that started to bray.
And, speaking of smells, he told jokes
That painted a picture in strokes
So windy and gassy
They didn’t sound classy
To even some Wobegon folks.
The stories he told of the maids
He’d known in his earlier grades
Were terribly sad —
No longer a lad,
He still can’t get over their braids.
Beware of the man who is hairy, son,
He might be an ogre or fairy, son.
If he proffers a feeler
He might be a Keillor
Of quality — you must be wary, son.
Osama bin Laden was shot in the head –
Osama bin Laden is Laden with lead!
Scatter the atoms of evil Osama!
Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna, Obama!
THE LAST TRUMP
The Donald says he’s gonna pump
Moola from his moola dump
Into a run Till Obama’s undone –
We hope we achieve the last Trump.
Sam Gwynn calls no kettle black
Because it IS, as is well known,
But he won't scour it till it's back
To being picked clean as a bone.
July 22, 2011
Fell out of bed.
How did Paul land,
Upon his head?
Paul Land landed
On his arm
Which bruised him but
Did little harm.
Where did Paul head?
He went to hear
With his ear
For he could listen
As Paul Land’s head
Was not his landing
When he fell from bed.
STATE PENN IMPENDING
There once was a coach named Paterno
Whose aide was discovered insterno.
He told not a soul —
Merely plugged up that hole
With a silence that loosed an Inferno.
There once was a jock named McQueary
Who caught a compeer acting queerly.
He told Joe Paterno
Who said of this porno,
“I’ll go to the dean with your query.”
There once was a fool named Zarguna
Who hadn’t the brains of a tuna,
So he took a great notion
To jump in the ocean
And enter a school off Laguna.
OUR CHILDHOOD RADIO HERO
“Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy”
There once was a writer named Black
Who seldom took critical flack:
His nom-de-plume “Armstrong”
Made us think we were not wrong
To believe he’s the offspring of “Jack.”
Sam Gwynn has a buddy, Steve Baker,
A “Christian,” he says, but a faker.
Down deep in his gut
He hated black butt,
He’d dishit, but he was no taker.