A BALLADE OF LIBERATION
"Free of her lips, free of her hips."
What is it every jackal wants at last?
The weak, the crippled beast, the easy kill.
He does not stalk the clever or the fast —
The carcass on the plain is better still;
All he need do is come and gorge his fill.
The jackal feasting is not a pretty sight,
But all he cares about is to work his will:
Thank you for giving up without a fight.
I pray you, Pretty, do not look aghast;
I speak in allegory only. Still,
My metaphor is apt. That day is past
When lovers need pursue your kind until
You lie down at their mercy — they need no skill
To stalk a prey in whom there is no flight,
Nor need they linger past the feeding's thrill —
Thank you for giving up without a fight.
The Serengeti herds are still and massed;
They wait in panting states of dishabille
To serve the scavenger his dull repast.
The jackal need not learn the veldt quadrille
Or feral waltz — he merely scans the bill
Of fare as it comes strolling into sight.
He gluts, then he departs over the hill —
Thank you for giving up without a fight.
Envoi:
You've made of love a bump-and-grind treadmill.
The predator walks lazily home at night,
Smiling all the way. You foot the bill.
Thank you for giving up without a fight.
BALLADE OF THE WEAKER SEX
"Weak men had need be witty."
We woo you in your youth, hound you to bed,
Lie lustily to you, with you girls. Of course,
We marry you sometimes, and then, instead
Of growing old along with you, remorse-
Fully we grasp the hands of time and force
Them back to yesternoon — we chase the moon:
The chase is what we crave! — and we divorce.
Forgive us, love, for leaving you so soon.
But sometimes life itself is what we dread,
The aging of the flesh, not of the bride.
We see the color in our hair has fled,
The sallow mirror-face, the belly wide
With illnesses impending, and our pride
Lost to summer men, the boys of June:
Sybil sings to us of suicide —
Forgive us, love, for leaving you so soon.
And if we last to gnaw the heel of bread
At the loaf's end, the crust as dry as thirst,
We wonder why it was that we were wed,
Or why conceived at all, why born and nursed
At woman's breast. Though all mankind is cursed,
We do not often sing your lonesome tune,
For most of us at last at least die first —
Forgive us, love, for leaving you so soon.
Envoi:
The world will spin and time will do its worst,
But we will seldom hear the shadows croon
The ballad of the "weaker sex" reversed —
Forgive us, love, for leaving you so soon.

From The Collected Lyrics of Lewis Turco / Wesli Court 1953-2004, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2004, 460 pp., ISBN 1-932842-00-4, jacketed cloth; ISBN 1-932842-01-2, trade paperback. Also available from Amazon.com in a Kindle edition.
Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Eight
SECRETS
(To the tune of "I've Got Sixpence.")
Trump's got secrets,
Super-secret secrets,
Trump's got secrets
To last him four more years!
He's got stuff to secrete
That he'd rather tweet
Or leak into the Russians' ears!
(Poor ears!)
No cares has he to grieve him,
Nor conscience left to deceive him,
He's happy as a shark, believe him,
As he blows hot air out his hole --
Out his hole, out his hole,
As he blows hot air out his hole!
TRIP
Trumpelstiltskin's gone to sea
To gad about, perhaps to see
A sheik, a pope, a manatee --
Petty Trumpelstiltskin!h
TRUMP TO NETANYAHU
"I never mentioned Israel!
The reason why? I cannot tell,
But this I know, and know full well --
I never mentioned Israel!"
LITTLE BOY TRUMP
Little boy Trump,
Blow your own horn
As you have been doing
since you were born.
But where is the boy
Who whimpers and weeps?
He lives in a White House
Full of white creeps.
Should we awaken him?
Useless to try,
He'll merely start whimpering
And spit in our eye.
WORMY MATH
Two and two is four,
(Trumpkin, Trumpkin,)
Four and four is eight,
(Counting up your budget gold,)
Eight and eight is sixteen,
(You and your arithmetic)
Sixteen and sixteen is forty-five
(Are just $two trillion off!
IMMEMORIAL DAY 2017.
"I would like to wish everyone, including all haters and losers (of which, sadly, there are many) a truly happy and enjoyable Memorial Day!" -- Donald Trump
I wish Donald Trump
A hunk of my rump,
And a rather large lump
Of what I must dump.
May he lose his member
So he will remember.
COVFEFE
A Riddle on a Neologism by Donald Trump.
Come meet the extra virgin
Of whom you may have heard,
Virgin number seventy-three
Free and, I give you my word,
Even better than the seventy-two
From Isis you'll get when you're dead --
Even better, believe me you!
(Who is the extra virgin?)
From Miss Pussy’s Parlor Songs by Claudette McFang.
June 02, 2017 in Accentual-syllabic verse, Commentary, Current Affairs, History, Humor & Satire, Literature, Nursery Rhymes, Poems, Poetry, Satire | Permalink | Comments (0)
Tags: Miss PussyOkay, nursery rhymes, Parlor Songs