"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.
Comments
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.
Get our updates on Facebook! Just click the Like button below
The Virginia Quarterly Review "The Mutable Past," a memoir collected in FANTASEERS, A BOOK OF MEMORIES by Lewis Turco of growing up in the 1950s in Meriden, Connecticut, (Scotsdale AZ: Star Cloud Press, 2005).
The Tower Journal Two short stories, "The Demon in the Tree" and "The Substitute Wife," in the spring 2009 issue of Tower Journal.
The Tower Journal A story, "The Car," and two poems, "Fathers" and "Year by Year"
The Tower Journal Memoir, “Pookah, The Greatest Cat in the History of the World,” Spring-Summer 2010.
The Michigan Quarterly Review This is the first terzanelle ever published, in "The Michigan Quarterly Review" in 1965. It has been gathered in THE COLLECTED LYRICS OF LEWIS TURCO/WESLI COURT, 1953-2004 (www.StarCloudPress.com).
The Gawain Poet An essay on the putative medieval author of "Gawain and the Green Knight" in the summer 2010 issue of Per Contra.
The Black Death Bryan Bridges' interesting article on the villanelle and the terzanelle with "The Black Death" by Wesli Court as an example of the latter.
Seniority: Six Shakespearian Tailgaters This is a part of a series called "Gnomes" others of which have appeared in TRINACRIA and on the blog POETICS AND RUMINATIONS.
Reinventing the Wheel, Modern Poems in Classical Meters An essay with illustrations of poems written in classical meters together with a "Table of Meters" and "The Rules of Scansion" in the Summer 2009 issue of Trellis Magazine
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.
March 28, 2017 in Americana, Commentary, Current Affairs, History, Humor & Satire, Literature, News, Poems, Poetry, Politics, Satire | Permalink
Tags: Claudette McFang, Miss Pussy, Parlor Songs