Poetics and Ruminations

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Twenty-eight

PART TWENTY-EIGHT

 

NOT BORDERLINE

 

"I'm not the Lord,

But I AM the lorder.

Shut off our border!

That is an order."

 

 

GUTS

 

"My gut tells me more than my 

         brain does --

The reason for this is simple:

My gut is the size of a goiter,

My brain is as big as a pimple."

 

 

PUTIN IN A PENTHOUSE

 

"I offered my friend Vlad a no-

                                    rent house

Worth fifty million bucks on top 

                                             of my 

Hotel in Moscow if he'd let me 

                                               build

It there. That never happened.          

                            I 'm not a louse

Because what didn't happen's 

                                        not a lie,

It's just a Russian castle in the 

                                                 air.

 

"A guy can dream, can't he, and 

                                  not be called

A traitor when nothing     

                happens? When a deal

Falls through? I just like building 

                                              walls,

So why should people be     

                                         appalled

When I make money from it? 

                               Walls are real,

Not castles in the sky. When 

                              Mammon calls

 

"I answer, rush to build a well-

                                meant house

So I can offer Vlad a great 

                                   penthouse."

 

PRONE

 

Common sense has been 

                              Trumped,

Intelligence dumped,

And General Kelly

Is out on his belly.

 

 

KASHOGGI WAS A CUTUP

 

Kashoggi was a cutup,

But there is no smoking saw,

So he lies here with his butt up

Looking beaten up and raw.

 

We know the Saudi Crown 

                                          Prince

Was the cause behind the 

                                          scene,

But there us no smoking saw

Lying where Kashoggi's been.

 

The reporter was a cutup,

Now he's just some lumps of meat

Trump says we have to swallow

Smiling while we chew and eat,

 

Fir we  can't upset the Saudis,

They are much too damned 

                                important --

They buy our finest weapons

And their oil must be imported.

 

Yes, Kashoggi was a cutup,

And the Saudis Trump the law,

So he lies here with his butt up

For there is no smoking saw.

 

 

HAVING A SMOCK

 

Now and then Trump likes to have a smock,

And then he taps his keg, turns on his cock.

 

 

DISGUSTION 

 

We watched Schumer and Nancy Pelosi

Have a disgustion with Bela Lugosi.

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part 25

 

NATIONAL ENQUIRY

(To the tune of "Where Has My Little Dog Gone?")

 

Where, oh, where has my dear Pecker gone,

Where, oh where can he be,

With my tale cut short and his friendship quite long,

Where, oh where can he be?

 

Alas! I fear that my Pecker has flipped

And he's telling stories on me!

My ass is dragging and his tongue has slipped --

Alas and alack! Woe is me!

 

Where, oh, where has my old Pecker gone,

Where, oh where can he be?

My tale's is unsaved and his safe was quite strong,

Who knows where my sad tale may be?

 

 

R. I. P. JOHN MC CAIN

August 29, 1936 - August 25, 2018.

 

The senator of many terms

Must now become dessert for worms.

No war devoured his flesh or brain,

But his own cells ate John McCain.

 

 

FAREWELL TO DONALD TRUMP

 

Don't insult me, Donald, when I'm gone!

Buddy, though our friendship was never on,

Why not try doing something right 

Now and then? Try hard, with all your might.

We're parting, you'll go your way, I'll go mine

I have just this to do

Give a little diss and hope it brings

Little luck to you.

I think it's kind of funny

How with all your money

Your friends are far snd few.

 

Don't insult me, Donald, when I'm gone 

Please don't talk about me, Donny, when I'm gone.

Though our friendship ceases, from now on,

If you can't say anything real nice,

Do not talk at all, is my advice.

We're parting, you'll go your way, I'll go mine.

I have just this to do:

Here's a little diss, I hope it dumps

Lots and lots of shit on you,

But makes no difference how I carry on

Please don't talk about me

Please don't talk about me

Please don't talk about me

Please don't talk about me

Please don't talk about me

Please don't talk about me, Donny,

And don't come to my funeral when I'm gone!

 

 

MONKEY BUSINESS

 

"My language may be kinda clunky,"

Says Ron DiSantis, "but you know,

Voting for Gillum would be to monkey

Up my nomination, so

 

"Vote for me for Governor

Of Florida, and don't go ape

Over this Black guy! I'm for Trump, 

So you're sure I'll never rape,

 

"'Cuz I can pay for prostitutes,

As my mentor always does,

Fot I'm a Navy lawyer, pal,

Not some Demo-Commie scuz

 

"Like Andy Gillum -- put him back

In the Tallahassee zoo

Where he belongs with simians,

Not on the streets with me and you."

 

 

DONALD TRUMP HOT

 

Donald Trump hot,

Donald Trump cold,

Donald Trump in a plot

With his gold.

 

Some like him hot,

Some like him cold,

Most like him in his plot

With his gold.

 

 

KAVANAUGH

 

What's Justice Ginsberg made of?

Sugar and spice

And everything nice --

That's what she is made of.

 

What is Judge Kavanaugh made of?

Slugs and snails 

And old lizard tails --

That's what he is made of.

 

 

ANNE OMINOUS

 

"She bravely grows euonymus

And signs her tripe 'Anonymous.'"

 

 

TOME

 

As Santa admonishes each elf,

"You have nothing to fear but 'FEAR' itself."

 

 

LITTLE JEFF SESSIONS

(To the tune of "Little Sir Echo.")

 

Little Jeff Sessions, find out who wrote

That op-ed piece! (What op-ed piece?) THAT op-ed piece!

Little Jeff Sessions, don't be a goat! 

(Won't be a goat) Don't be a goat!

Won't you ever do what I say? (I say!)

YOU say? (YOU say!)

You're a dumb Southern fellow

I know by your voice,

But you never will do as I say! (I say!)

 

Don't you dare to recuse yourself! (Recuse myself?)

Again! (Again?) Again! (Again?)

Or I will put you back on the shelf!

(The shelf?) YOUR shelf)

(MY shelf?) YOUR shelf. 

So you had better do what I say! (I say!)

You're a dumb Southern fellow

I know by your voice,

But you'd better do what I say!

Or else! (Or else?) OR ELSE!

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.

Sent from my iPhone

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part 22

PART TWENTY-TWO

 

PLAYMATES

 

I don't want to play in your yard,

You're just too darn mean to me.

I may take the fifth amendment,

You'll just haft-a wait and see.

 

There is no collusion, nossir,

No collusion anywhere,

No collusion with the Russians,

No collusion here and there!

 

I don't know a Stormy Pornstar,

Nor a Stormy Weather either,

If my lawyer paid her money

You should ask was he beneath her!

 

Or you might ask Giuliani,

He should know I would suppose--

He knows stuff I never heard of

Spoken in confusing prose.

 

There's a guy that I admire!

He says what? That I paid back

To my lawyer Stormy's payoff?

Fire him that Guinea whack!

 

 

I RAN CONTRA

 

I ran Contra to Obama

Who was born in darkest Chad,

Not Chicago or Hawai'i,

To a mixed-up mom and dad.

 

I ran Contra to the Clintons:

I beat Hillary really bad

Though she got three million more votes

Than I guess I ever had.

 

Now I get to undo all the

Stuff they did that made them glad....

No collusion! Much confusion!

Wind up Mueller! Sad! So sad!

 

 

DONNY TRUMPKIN

 

Donny Trumpkin, soup on his fly, 

Kissed the porn star and made her sigh.

She said when she had cashed her check,

"I'll talk about it...what the heck."

 

 

INNOCENCE  

 

Does Donald know the meaning of innocence?

In no sense.

 

 

APOLOGY

 

"The dizzy Disney CEO

Did not apologize to me

For all the nasty stuff they said

About me on their ABC,"

 

Said Donald when his fan Roseanne

Dropped racist turds upon an aide

Who worked for our last President,

But for the nasty cracks he made

 

About the Bureau and everyone

In DC that he could despise,

Did Donald Trump take back a tweet

Or look like he'd apologize

 

To an American or Haitian 

Or anyone from a shithouse nation?

 

 

TRUMPARDONS

 

Are you a crooked pal of mine?

I'll pardon you, dear Valentine.

 

 

PARDON ME

 

"I have the right to pardon me

(Though I cannot say 'Pardon me,'

Even when I sneeze or fart --

It's simply not a part of me)."

 

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.

Miss Pussy's Parlor Songs, Part Sixteen

 

 

XMAS TAX

 

Xmas is coming,

The rich are getting fat,

Please put a dollar

In Donald Trump’s hat;

If you haven’t got a dollar

A billion ought to do —

If you do not have a billion,

Well boo-hoo-hoo,

How sad for you!

 

 

WHENCE

 

Whence cometh Melania?

Is it from Albania?

No, from someplace greenier --

A valley in Slovenia!

Is Donald Trump her senior?

Yes, and he's much meanier.

 

 

THE AXE

 

Axe me no questions

And I'll tell you lies:

We're cutting your taxes

And, quick as time flies,

Your tax cuts expire,

But not those we gave

To the big corporations,

And that's why we rave.

You get what you pay for,

So you're getting nothing,

No roads, rails or bridges,

And that's really something

To put in the books

For following ages --

Local taxes go up

And down go your wages!

Merry Xmas, dear neighbor,

Happy New Year, you chump!

Get up on your roof, and

Get ready to jump!

 

 

CHALOO, CHALLAY!

 

Chaloo challay,

It’s Xmas Day,

And Donald Trump

Says we can say

“Merry Christmas”

once again —

Oh, Happy Day,

Chaloo challay

Donnie Trump

Says it’s okay!

He makes me feel

So goddam gay!

 

From MISS PUSSY'S PARLOR SONGS by Claudette McFang.

 

 

KUDOS FOR CLAUDETTE

 

Claudette McFang has passed the test:

this pussycat can say it best!

Congress, the White House, the boudoir—

Claudette knows where the stories are

and tells them as they should be told.

Her facts are right, her lingo’s bold,

and she defends the righteous cause

with sharp and deadly verbal claws!

 

Rhina P. Espaillat

Society for Calling a Spade a Spade

Dialects of the Tribe: Postmodern American Poets and Poetry, by Lewis Putnam Turco, Nacogdoches, TX: Stephen F. Austin State University Press, www.tamupress.com, 2012, 336 pp., ISBN 978-1-936205-30-1, paperback.

 

My ancient friend Pierre Bennerup of Sunny Border Nurseries in Kensington, CT, wrote me recently:

Dear Lew,

As a one time English major like myself, 'I'm sure you're also concerned with the erosion of our great language, especially with respect to these so-called millennials.

I'm therefore forming a new society called, "Let's Call a Spade a Spade." As a poet, wordsmith and avid gardener, I'd like to appoint you as a charter member. Below is a short list of just a few of my concerns:

A spade should not be called a "shovel" as I've heard much too often.

A spading fork should not be called a "pitch fork."

A trowel should not be called a "little shovel."

It also disturbs me that perfectly good words describing garden implements have been co-opted to mean other things. A spade can describe a suit of playing cards. It can also be a racial slur. A "rake" can be someone who visits a bawdy house; a "hoe" is someone who works there.*

This bastardization of our language must be stopped. I hope you'll agree to assist me in this important task.

Best regards to my friend of longest standing,

Pierre.

 

I replied,

Sure(ly), Pierre,

sign me up, but I'm afraid it's a lost cause; the language is going to change no matter what. However, I do insist upon being a curmudgeon about it.

Lew

From Wesli Court’s Epitaphs for the Poets, by Lewis Turco, Baltimore, MD: BrickHouse Books, (www.BrickHouseBooks.com) 2012, paperback, ISBN: 978-1-938144-01-1:

*R. I. P. EDWIN MARKHAM

March 23, 1852 - March 7, 1940

 

"Man with a Hoe," his greatest lay,

Means something different today.

 

Form of the Week 23 – Pun Poesy

 

Many poets and critics in the 19th century, including Wordsworth and Coleridge, attempted to make distinctions between various related terms including imagination, fancy, and wit.  The “imagination” was the ability to think on a highly creative plane, conjuring images that made the world more intelligible or perceptible to the intelligence. The “esemplastic,” according to Coleridge, is that imaginative ability of the poet to make an architectonic whole out of various and disparate elements. “Fancy” was farther removed from reality, was more whimsical or playful or decorative. “Wit” is the ability to imagine or perceive incongruous connections between disparate things, as in “annomination” which is wordplay, like the “bon mot” or the pun, the quibble or calembour; a synonym is “paronomasia.” It is the expression of the quick and humorously clever mind, but it is essentially superficial − the Romantic and most of the Victorian poets and critics were nothing if not Transcendental philosophically — that is to say, Kantian and post-Kantian idealists, and exceedingly earnest.

Often over these many, many years, when I inflicted a pun upon someone, I was told that out of simple humanity I ought not to inflict punishment for no reason. Usually, it is a simple human being who makes this suggestion, but I was apparently born a pundit; therefore, my parents are more to blame than I, although I have always been punctilious in my approach to punography and its application, and that is a matter of personality, which may also be ascribed to my genes, though not to my brother Gene who has never made a pun in his life, nor to my wife Jean who has never done the same – you see how fate has treated me…fate, or the Laughing God, in whom I am inclined to believe for, as the Hebrews say, “Man plans, God laughs.”

I usually reply to the half-witticism regarding the ill humor inherent in punning by asking the question, “Who is the greatest poet in the English language?” Invariably the answer I receive is, “William Shakespeare.” My follow-up question is always, “And who is the greatest punster in the English language?” Usually a silence follows rather than a reply because both the asker and the askee look askance at one another, for our answers, obviously, are identical.  My third question is, “Well, if the greatest poet and the greatest punster in the English language are the same, how is it possible for the pun to be the lowest form of wit? If it were so, wouldn’t Shakespeare be the worst poet in the English language rather than the best?” It is difficult to see how our greatest writer can simultaneously be our worst, though it may be so, paradoxically.

Not all poets employ the pun in their works as Wild Bill Tremble-Lancelot did. Rather, they carry language umbrellas to ward off puns in their poems. If one creeps in somehow, such poets take great umbrage, as Grace Schulman did at Yaddo in the summer of 1977.  One evening she gave a reading, and at breakfast the next morning I told her that I liked the pun in her poem titled,

 

"I PRAY TO A GENITAL GOD"

 

 

           When I pointed out the pun

     in her poem, she told me to be still.

     It was no pun — in the panorama

of all her work there wasn't a single pun.

                  She hated puns.

 

           She could no longer work, for

     thinking of the pun.  "Disruptive," she said,

     "you're being quite disruptive."  Rather than

rapture, she found but rupture now, a pun

                  upon her page:

 

           "Cruel and inhuman pun-

     ishment," she said, "to see where less was meant,"

     but so much more than what I'd seen.  She could

not write, not even punctuate.  I must be

                  more genital,

 

           compassionate, even blind

     to the printed word, for what she meant was

     holy -- "My god!" she cried, "can't you at least

be a gentleman?  The god I meant was Pan!"

                  I bowed my head.

 

           "I'm sorry," I said, "I saw

     you paging what was not there.  I've caused you

     pain.  I did not mean to pan the poem

you thought you wrote, nor even the one I saw.

                  I shall be more

 

           "genteel in future, and if

     I see a pomegranate where you meant

     only a poem, granite I'll not see

on Shakespeare's tomb, the punography between

                  his poignant lines.

 

           "I shall note the inscription only,

     done by the chiseler's hand when he was dead.

     To hell with language.  I shall bear my soul

tiptoe among the tombs, hope to fall prey to

                  a genital god."

 

Poets like Grace are victims of

 

AMBIGUPHOBIA: The Fear of Puns

 

Neither hear nor dare to utter them:

that is her mutter as she walks the lane

between her home and work.  No other theme

keeps her intention.  Shakespeare is her bane

of contortion — all those double entendres,

 

wierd ploys, warble chokes.  How can one stand

a language that sniggles like string, snags in the tongue?

A word should mean what it means and not demean

the person who speaks it, cause her demeanor to alter,

native good humor to melt in the foyer,

 

or before the altar, of the Laughing God.

She works the line between her ham and wok

when she pre-pares a meal.  What is amiss?  Better

to walk a mile than think of puns; sooner

choke on Oklahoma dust and walk a mule

 

than have as motto, "Neither hare nor deer

to otter dam."  Better emigrate

to Rotterdam and get in Dutch

than stumble over meanings, double over,

wretched upon the quaking worth of words.

 

         If you, dear reader, would like to investigate further the background and permutations of the pun, I can think of nothing better than Joseph Taratovsky’s New York Times essay, “Pun for the Ages” at this venue:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/28/opinion/28Tartakovsky.html. Both the poems above may be found in my book titled, 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.

 

Suggested Writing Exercise

 

Write a poem that is full of puns or, contrarily, one that has no wordplay in it whatsoever.

 

Dual Duel Duet

 

 

  

PART 1: IRAQ AND A HARD PLACE

(Some Years Ago)

 

The man on the ground is Petraeus,

A soldier who may not dismay us

         Until, with a sigh,

         He rolls out the lie

He’s bound to roll out to betray us.

 

 

PART 2: A  HARD ONE TO SWALLOW

(Today)

 

The man in the bed was Petraeus;

His tricks ‘twixt the sheets might dismay us,

         But they’re nothing at all

         To the fibs he let fall

On his spouse while he worked to betray us. 

 

Copyright by Wesli Court

Republicanation

 

I. MAINE'S GOVERNORAMUS

"if you think the Democrats hate me now, wait till you see what I do next!"

 

Paul Le Page

Can't act his age:

Mentally four, he

Is physically hoary.

 

II. Mitt Romney

Delivers a homily,

A homely message

Concerning dressage.

 

III. Anne Romney,

Though quite comely,

Looks a bit bony

On her dancing pony.

 

IV. Tim Pawlenty

Had B. O. Plenty

But wasn't racy

Like Dick Tracy.

 

V. Mitt Romney

Had insomni-

A, thought he'd rely on 

Paul Ryan.

 

VI. Paul Ryan

Despises pie in

A blue sky,

Prefers a lie.

 

VII. Mitt Romney

May sit on me,

But please take note:

He'll lose my vote.

 

VIII.

 Rush Limbaugh

Liked a bimbaugh

Once in a while

To dilute his bile.

DNA Shows Right-Wingers Less Evolved

June 22, 2012, Special to the Dresden Mills Gazette. By Wesli Court.

Although human beings, like all mammals, are descended from creatures of the sea, recent analysis of the DNA of politically liberal and conservative people appears to show that right-wingers have evolved from mollusks whereas those who lean left are descended from vertebrates.

According to Brian Sykes, author of several books about DNA including his latest, DNA USA which shows that West Coast Amerinds are as European as Cape Cod bluebloods, analysis of the DNA in the brains of members of Fox News shows that they are musselheads. “This is not entirely a surprise,” Professor Sykes noted. “The crustiness of many Teapartiers is derived directly from crustaceans, and their tendency to withdraw into their shells and disregard facts and figures is clearly a quality derived from mossbacks.”

“Furthermore,” Sykes continued, “their shellfishness is manifest in nearly everything they do, but I have said enough for the moment,” and at that point he clammed up.

Parliament Enacts Prostatute

         In the early twenty-first century New Scotland Yard was baffled by a series of strange sex crimes in the city of London — works of art in the public parks and squares were being violated. From Trafalgar Square to Hyde Park female nudes of various types were being soiled by a human male.

         It was very frustrating. Although citizen complaints rose day by day, there were too many carvings of nymphs, shepherdesses, Greek and Roman goddesses to cover with stake-outs. Without publicity or fanfare, the police at last decided that hidden cameras would be installed near as many of the carvings as possible.

        Nevertheless, the violations continued unabated for several more weeks before the new technology managed to catch the culprit in the act. When he has apprehended and brought to book, it was discovered that the criminal was, in fact, a conservative lawmaker, a member of Parliament. He was arraigned, tried, and eventually sent to gaol for a period on charges of statue-Tory rape.