Poetics and Ruminations

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Six

SING A SONG OF TAPPING

 

Sing a song of tapping,

A socket full of eye,

President Obama

Is nothing but a spy.

He ordered my Trump Tower

To be tapped on the sly!

Such nastiness is awwfull,

It makes me wanna cry.

He heard me and the Russians

Plotting to subvert

The Democrats' election,

And gosh! That kinda hurt!

He heard me tell a lie...,

Okay, so, more than one,

But fibbing under oath, I hear,

Is often kinda fun--

If you don't believe me,

Ask Clinton, he will say

That bj's in the White House

Are often kind of gay...,

Oops! I didn't mean that,

I'd rather urinate

On girls in a hotel

(I don't mean Watergate).

When that leak is over

My birds begin to sing --

Believe me, all my Tweeting

Is not to blame! Nothing

To do with it at all!

That nasty man Obama

Tapps everyone I call.

When I am in my counting-house

Fondling all my money,

My wife is in New York alone

Eating bread and honey

Or standing in the bathroom

Picking out her nose,

Obama's in the closet

Hiding in our clothes!

 

 

Trump's mental health has been arrested,

Much like the immigrants he's seeking,

Which stinks a lot and is detested:

Look at the havoc! He is reeking.

 

 

"Biggest chuckle of the morning: Kelly Ann Conway asked about Trump's assertion that his 'wires had been tapped' at Trump Tower, responds by saying that there are lots of ways to wiretap today, including through microwaves. Microwaves? Be careful. Be very careful what you say while you are popping popcorn. Big brother is listening!"

-- John T. Sullivan, Jr.

 

Be careful, very careful what

You say while popping popcorn!

Big Brother's in your microwave

Searching through your porn,

Listening beneath your bed,

Recording squeaking springs

Among dust bunnies and, of course.

Sundry other things

 

Like moans of ecstasy and lust

Coming from above.

Kelly Conway's got her ear

Tuned in to sounds of love

For Donald Trump's CD collection:

They'll gather every word

That you emit, and every scent

As well as every turd.

 

 

HYMN FOR KELLYANNE CONWAY

With apologies to Rev. Shurtleff

 

Lead on, O Queen infernal,

The Ides of March have come;

Henceforth in fields of funfest

Your texts will e'er be dumb.

Through days of desperation

Your words will be our song;

And now, O Queen infernal,

You've proved you're always wrong.

 

Lead on, O Queen infernal,

Till Trump has lost his lease

And foolishness has frittered

Away and we're at peace,

For not with Trumpets blaring

Or beating teeth and gums,

With all your silly errors

We seek our roll of Tums.

 

Lead on, O Queen infernal,

We laugh till we're in tears,

For giggles turn to roaring

Where'er your face appears

Your microwave hums o'er us,

Emitting unwitting jokes --

We are your doting chorus,

Frogs croaking till it chokes.

 

 

A CLEVER SPICER

 

Not even a clever Spicer

Can defend a proven lie --

That leads but to disaster;

One shouldn't even try --

It's fish caught in a fry.

 

The recipe that Spicer

Follows in his venue

Before the White House press corps

Isn't even tenu-

Ous, nor on the menu.

 

He's caught in Donald's dicer,

Squeezed through little holes

In the bottom of his ricer,

And he is none the wiser

About what's in the bowls:

 

It looks and smells quite nasty,

And everybody knows

If pudding,  it's too hasty

And certainly not tasty.

One cannot hold one's nose

 

Long enough to lapp upp

A thimbleful of glopp

While Obama's there to tapp upp

The data in Donald's lapp-topp

And the corn that didn't popp.

 

 

TATTLE TALE

 

Tattletale, tattletale,

You have some news!

Run to the White House --

It's something they'll use!

 

Don't tell the committee

Of the House that you chair

Though they are the first folks

With whom you should share

 

These alternate facts

Through lips that are loose --

Trump will employ them

To make his own noose.

 

 

TRUMPSONG

 

Gonna wash Obamacare outa my hair!

Gonna wash Obamacare outa my hair!

Keep Obamacare? They wouldn't dare!

Here comes the vote -- oh, no! It's still there!

 

 

Rump-a-dump Trump,

Three oafs in a clump,

And who do you think they be?

Bannon and Putin

And, there's no disputin',

Trump himself up in a tree.

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.

Priscilla Bourne

PRISCILLA BOURNE

1705-1772

       There was time until there was no time.

       I made them bread with little leaven.

       I split wood and I carried water.

I bore them all — men, burdens, the hard years

       and the easy weather.  I weathered them

       and I withered, doing what women

       do. Did I regret it?  No.  These were

mine.  I would do it again if I could

       flesh that bone lying in the churchyard

       under the dying elms.  I throve while

       I could, and I watched my children thrive —

two of them.  We made the halls of the house

       echo and the bare fields yield.  We throve

       and we died.  Now our voices murmur

       in the dusty corners when the wind

rides up the valley bearing on its back

       a siege of storm.  We discuss the hours

       lying muffled in the dark eaves.

       Wasps humming in the summer attic

are our neighbors now.  All, all has fallen

       away into the lath and plaster

       that covers the first boards I scoured,

       into the clocks muttering upon

the mantels.  Now, at last, there is no time.

The Green Maces of Autumn: Voices in an Old Maine House by Lewis Turco, Dresden, ME 04342-0161: Mathom Bookshop, 2002. ISBN 0972271007, paper, $9.95, available from the author.  Poems in this volume won both the Cooper House chapbook competition and the Silverfish Review chapbook award. All poems are collected in Fearful Pleasures: The Complete Poems of Lewis Turco 1959-2007, www.StarCloudPress.com.

The Kitchen

 

THE KITCHEN

A Prose Poem from The Inhabitant.

 

In the  kitchen the dishwasher is eating the dishes. The Inhabitant listens to the current of     digestion — porcelain being ground, silver wearing thin, the hum and bite of the     machine.

His wife does not hear it — she is humming, not listening. But the Inhabitant is aware of     movement in the cupboards, of the veriest motion — the cast-iron skillet undergoing     metamorphosis, perhaps, becoming its name: the wives' spider spinning beneath the     counter, weaving and managing, waiting for the doors to open.

Each cup has its voice, each saucer its ear, and the thin chant planes between the     shelves, touching the timbres of glass and crystal as it passes.  The gentleman     listens, is touched to the bone by this plainsong — he feels his response in the     marrow's keening.

But the women do not — neither the elder nor the child — sense the music their things     make. Their lips move, a column of air rises like steam, and there is something in a     minor key sliding along the wall, touching the face of a plastic clock, disturbing the     linen calendar beside the condiments.

It is as though, the Inhabitant reflects, the women are spinning.  It is as though, while he     waits, they weave bindings among the rooms; as though the strands of tune were     elements of a sisterhood of dishes, the ladies, the spider in the cabinet, even of the     dishwasher, done now with its grinding, which contributes a new add sound — a     continuo of satiety — to the gray motet the kitchen is singing.

 

From Fearful Pleasures: The Complete Poems of Lewis Turco 1959-2007, Scottsdale, AZ: www.StarCloudPress.com, 2007. ISBN 978-1-932842-19-7, cloth; ISBN 978-1-932842-20-3, paper. Also available in a Kindle edition.

 

 

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Five

PART FIVE

 

Palin waved to Putin from her porch,

She called to him over the Bering Sea,

"Donald will be sending you the torch

That once was held by our Miss Liberty!” 

"Da," Putin said.

 

 

CINNABON MAN

 

Oh, Cinnabon, who is gonna ice you?

Oh, Cinnabon, who is gonna ice you?

Oh, Cinnabon, who is gonna ice you, all in a day?

 

Run to the moon, "Moon, won't you ice me?"

Run to the sea, "Sea, won't you ice me?"

Run to the sun, "Sun, won't you ice me, all in a day?"

 

Trump said, "Cinnabon, moon'll be a-bleeding."

Trump said, "Cinnabon, sea'll be a-sinking."

Trump said, "Cinnabon, sun'll be a-freezing, all in a day."

 

Oh, Donald Trumpkin, won't you stop your lyin'?

Oh, Donald Trumpkin, won't you stop your lyin'?

Oh, Donald Trumpkin, won't you stop your lyin' just for a day?

 

Trump said, "No, because I am a lion."

Trump said, "No, because I am a lion."

Trump said, "No, because I am a lion roarin' every day."

 

Oh, Donald Trumpkin, where can I run to?

Oh, Donald Trumpkin, where can I run to?

Oh, Donald Trumpkin, where can I run to every single day?

 

"No use a-runnin' -- you already voted."

"No use a-runnin' -- you already voted."

"No use a-runnin' -- you already voted, all in a day."

 

 

Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, have you come back?

"I've been to Sweden to see the attack!"

Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, were terrorists there?

"Only poor Trumpkin under a chair."

 

 

It's a long way across the border,

it's a long way to go.

It's a long way across the border,

But Donald Trump says, "Blow!"

 

Farewell to all that's decent,

Back to poverty --

It's a long way across the border,

Back to what I tried to flee.

 

 

Do you have a peepee?

Nono, not the girls' room.

Do you have a pussy?

Nono, not the boys' room.

Peepee in the boys' room,

Piddle in the girls' room,

Do them both -- piddle or crap

Sitting in Donnie Trumpkin's lap.

 

 

Rumpletrumpkin says, "I'll choose

Which media may hear my news:

Not those that may be run by Jews

Like The Times that may abuse

My fake stories -- those amuse

My supporters who don't accuse

Me of holding such stupid views."

 

 

ATTORNEY GENERAL

 

Did Jeff Sessions

Talk to the Russians?

He says he didn't, but the answer is "Yes."

Shouldn't the law

Stick in his craw?

Of course, but instead he's making a mess.

 

His new recusal

Is now an accusal

But Trump's still patting his lawyer's back.

Trumpkin's attorney

Will soon take a journey --

Hopefully both will enjoy Session's sack.

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.

Trumped-Up Anthem

 

TRUMPED-UP ANTHEM

By Pierre Bennerup

Edited by Claudette McFang, "Miss Pussy."

 

My Country Tis of Me

Greed and Mysogyny

    Of Thee I sing.

I don't pay tax, you see —

That's sheer stupidity.

From my Trump Tower I see

    Just glam and bling

 

Send Lady Liberty

To weight loss surgery,

    Make her a ten.

Send back all refugees

Except my current squeeze:

After she needs new knees

    I'll trade her in.

 

Another billion bucks?

My payroll truly sucks—

    That's how I save.

My money’s in my vault.

Who cares if you default?

I’ll never call a halt,

    Not from my grave!