Kanye West -- Cold War With China -- Voter Fraud? What Voter Fraud? -- Our coming chemical utopia

For more than 10 minutes Thursday, President Trump was struck nearly speechless as rapper, activist, entrepreneur and MAGA-hat wearing, Trump-loving, dragon-energy-exuding Kanye West held forth in an Oval Office soliloquy that included an f-bomb, references to male genitalia and a presidential hug that looked more like a mauling.  Washington Post.

A rapper whose last name was West

performed as the President's guest

by spouting such smut

that Trump's mouth stayed shut

as Kanye his host did molest.

*********************************

It looks like ol' Trump wants to fight

with China all day and all night.

Why can't he behave

and possibly save

our commonwealth from Jinping's spite?

******************************

Kobach has made uprooting immigrants who voted illegally a centerpiece of his efforts as secretary of state in Kansas. After more than two years of being empowered to prosecute fraud, he’s charged two noncitizens with having voted.  WaPo.

I find it exceedingly odd,

this worry about voter fraud.

The real fraud occurs

with dumb racial slurs

the White House is spreading abroad.

********************************

Going down the rabbit hole with Alice is quite fun.
And Puff the Magic Dragon has his moment in the sun.
Mild hallucinogenics that stun folk into a grin
are trending more than ever in this world of stress and din.

So why let thugs and hooligans the market corner so,
when bizness types are anxious to invest and make some dough?
The money found in vaping is an iceberg tip, my friend;
the cannabis bonanza doesn't look to have an end.

So alter your perceptions to go ride the unicorn.
You will not need prescriptions, just as sure as you are born!
As soon as they get blockchains up and running for our dope
you won't care if you're rich or poor -- one hit will help you cope.

My friend in the Pacific left me a phone message asking how long I pray each day. This is my reply . . .

How long do I pray, is that what you’re asking me? I don’t hold a stopwatch when I get on my knees (which is a challenge in and of itself, since my osteoarthritis makes kneeling uncomfortable.)

But I will come up with a reply, in a roundabout manner, since this morning I’m not feeling too well and don’t want to occupy my mind with much of anything more than skimming the surface of my very superficial thoughts.

Yesterday I was at the local supermarket across the street from my building, Fresh Market, getting a fresh baked cheddar/jalapeno bagel for my breakfast (I love having one smeared with smoked salmon flavored cream cheese and a couple of green onions, with a big cold glass of milk.) As I strolled down the condiment aisle, gazing in fascination at the varieties of vinegar, hot sauce, dill pickles, olives, ketchup, mustard, worchestershire sauce, fish sauce, soy sauce, pickle relish, pickled peppers, cooking wine, and bottled capers, I noticed the pharmacy had a sign up saying GET YOUR FLU SHOT HERE. That reminded me that my doctor didn’t give me a flu shot when I went in last week cuz they didn’t have the full strength stuff, and when you turn 65 you’re supposed to get full strength, cuz now you’re officially old and feeble and liable to keel over at any moment without it. The doc said to get a full strength shot at any pharmacy I wanted, but to get it soon. So I asked the Fresh Market pharmacist if they had full strength, she said yes, I asked how much, she said free with Medicare, so I said shoot me up, doll. Then she recommended I also get a Hepatitis A shot, and I suggested I also get a shingles vaccination -- cuz under Medicare those two  cost just two bucks each. (I’m beginning to love Medicare.) So I got three shots yesterday morning, and this morning I’m feeling especially woozy and indolent, and my shoulders ache like H-E-Double Toothpick. So my prayers have been rather truncated, at best.

I remember in Thailand President Morris really emphasized long, detailed personal prayers each day. So I made a list each morning of everything that was on my mind for the day -- investigators, diarrhea, conflicts with my companion, finding a new chapel when I was up in Khon Kaen, what comedy bits to do with the Singing Group at our next concert, etc.  Those prayers lasted about 20 minutes apiece. As I mentioned each item on my list I paused to check it off with a red pencil.

But for most of my life as an active Christian I guess my prayers ran about five minutes on average. I remember a real long prayer I said with Amy one stormy evening after she threatened to walk out on me because I liked to play Monopoly with the kids on Sunday; rather than yell back at her that she was a certified loony, I swallowed my anger and fear and invited her to kneel with me in our bedroom to seek the Lord’s help in getting over this problem. I prayed a long time, asking for help and understanding to be considerate of Amy’s feelings and for forgiveness for not taking her thoughts and opinions serious enough -- when I had finished we were both in tears, and hugged each other. The spirit was very strong, but, alas, a few weeks later, after our last child Daisy was born, Amy decided I was too wicked to raise our children, so she left with them and filed for divorce. I believe now she was suffering from a serious case of postpartum depression, and was egged on by some of her brothers and sisters who had a long-standing animus against me which they hid with false smiles and hypocritical bonhomie. The momsers.

My prayers were pretty short after that. Usually a perfunctory flop by the side of the bed in the morning and evening with a rote thanks for the day and a plea at night for some sleep. I took a lot of melatonin, on the advice of my therapist, which didn’t do much good at all. But that’s okay -- if he’d prescribed something stronger I’m pretty sure I’d be an addict to this day. I have a friend who is a prof up at BYU who has been hooked on prescription sleeping pills for twenty years, by her own admission. And she’s considered a ‘pillar of the Church.’

(We now pause a moment so I can finish my can of Mountain Dew and take my feet out of the tub of ice water I have had them in since starting this reply to you -- I just got up from my first nap of the day -- starting at 9:30 in the morning! -- and couldn’t revive myself without a jolt of caffeine and a shock treatment to my tootsies.)

There, that’s better. Now where was I?

Oh yes, how long do I pray? Well, yesterday when I oozed out of bed onto my knees I spent about 3 minutes in thanksgiving for a decent night’s sleep (only up once to pee), for my apartment with a kitchen and a soft comfortable bed (it wasn’t all that long ago that I was living in an unheated basement with no cooking facilities and sleeping in a $30 recliner from DI), for the proximity of many of my kids and grandkids, and for the opportunity to write and share some light verse to make people laugh. I have been telling the Lord for many years now that I don’t think I could live if I couldn’t spend time trying to make people laugh -- it’s what I’m on earth for, in my own estimation. Plus I have prayed really hard, and, I hope, humbly, for His help in finding appropriate news stories to write about and to refrain from being just insulting and snarky and critical -- to have a light touch like Stephen Leacock and a crazy touch like Robert Benchley and a mischievous touch like S.J. Perelman. My literary idols. I sincerely believe He has heard my prayers for help and inspiration and answered them so that over the years my stuff has gotten better and seems to enjoy some favor with professional journalists now. But I doubt I ever spend more than five minutes on my knees in prayer, even when I’m feeling good. It gets too painful. I’ve tried saying my prayers while sitting up with my head bowed, but I’m not comfortable personally addressing the Lord that way. Never have been.

My prayer last night was very short and contrite. I wanted a cheese omelette for dinner; when I pulled the egg carton out of the fridge it slipped out of my hands and crashed onto the kitchen floor, sending shell and yolks all over the place. Furious, I loudly took the name of the Lord in vain -- several times. After I cleaned up the mess and got my omelette toasted I dropped to my knees by my bed and asked for pardon and for help in controlling my tongue better in the future. That was about a two minute prayer. I felt so discouraged at my failure to live even the simplest basic commandment that I hadn’t the heart to keep on going with anything else, like please bless me to sleep well or please keep my kids and grandkids safe and sound.

So there you have it: the length of my prayers, in excruciating detail. I wonder why you had to call me and leave a message with that question instead of just emailing me? This reply of mine, as fine an example of logorrhea as ever disgraced the pages of literature, is of course going on my blog site. But you knew that already, didn’t you? Maybe that’s why you didn’t dare email me in the first place . . . ?

A Tweet from Trump -- Carbon Dioxide -- "Trump 2020" is not Fireproof -- The Cost of a Stamp is Going Up Again -- The Space Race and Your Wallet -- The Sears Saga: Another One Bites the Dust

The U.S. Postal Service proposed raising the price of a first-class stamp by 10% to 55 cents and increasing rates on a popular option used by Amazon.com Inc. and other shippers by more than 12% as the agency seeks to shore up its finances.  WSJ

The postman's ringing twice

to let you know the price

of mailing stuff

is getting rough;

your wallet's in a vice.

*************************************

The powerful new rocket NASA has been developing for years in its quest to get to the moon and Mars will require a massive amount of additional funding that would double the initial cost of the project to nearly $9 billion, according to a scathing government report released Wednesday.  WaPo

Getting to the moon is gonna cost an arm and leg.

And Mars is gonna need large golden ducats by the keg.

Trump got his start in real estate; I guess he wants to lease

condos on the Martian plain and parcels of green cheese.

But if the Martians read his tweets I think they may decide

to stick us next to Tharsis, hoping for a good landslide.

The one percent with all the wealth can dream of outer space;

the rest of us are stuck on Earth, and going broke apace.

**********************************

For years, there have been reports of Sears death spiraling toward the corporate graveyard alongside other popular brick-and-mortar retailers.  Now, reports say Sears is working with advisers to prepare to possibly file for bankruptcy, as soon as this week.  USA Today 

Nothing but warehouses dot the landscape.

Stores that sell merchandise are in bad shape.

Sears is the latest to take a nosedive.

Amazon will make sure they don't survive.

I knew all the staff down at Sears long ago;

now algorithms sell me a gizmo.

I don't like to rhyme of despair and defeat,

but we're getting too good making folk obsolete.

*********************************

A TRUCK WITH 'TRUMP 2020' BUMPER STICKERS WAS LEFT AT A BAR OVERNIGHT: SOMEONE SET IT ON FIRE.
headline in WaPo



The last resort of freedom is the bumper sticker, friend.
When that is threatened we have reached the cotton pickin' end.
If civil discourse can't be had with cars and trucks, beware;
internment camps are coming and there's napalm in the air.
Perhaps Betsy DeVos can help us in this hour of need --
for soon all of our children will no longer learn to read! 

**********************

Carbon dioxide remains
part of the Earth's growing pains.
Unless it's decreased
the skids will be greased
and Noah will sail the Great Plains.

**************************

Despite so many positive events and victories, Media Reseach Center reports that 92% of stories on Donald Trump are negative on ABC, CBS and ABC. It is FAKE NEWS! Don’t worry, the Failing New York Times didn’t even put the Brett Kavanaugh victory on the Front Page yesterday-A17! @realDonaldTrump

When negative stories occur

about me, they all are just pure

fakery, see,

and plain ornery --

the Saudis have got the right cure.

Beaches

There is something about a beach, freshwater or ocean, that pulls me irresistibly into a good and generous mood. Find me on the beach anywhere in this distended world and I'm liable to treat you to the best meal available in a hundred mile radius, or offer you a string of pearls, or at least build a sand castle with you. Whatever is fine and decent in my usually crabbed and crusted soul expands like a Ja-Ru Magic Grow Capsule whenever the shore is near.

Growing up in Minneapolis, I often walked or biked down to the Mississippi shore around the Hennepin Avenue Bridge. Now gentrified, homogenized, and sterilized, the Mississippi shoreline fifty years ago was an overripe, pungent, fascinating landscape of lazy carp gulping sewage direct from large brick tunnels, littered with bed springs and beer bottles, and smelling of peppery weeds and urine. Waves slapped at the speckled, gritty shore as coal and grain barges majestically sailed past in water that was a peculiar kind of brown -- more of a stain than a color, with diesel rainbows wavering on top of it. 

Sitting on an elm stump, I watched the crows and pigeons wheeling in the pale blue sky over the water as the sluggish tugboats thumped sullenly by. There was always something interesting to pick up on the shore. Snags of driftwood. A large leather boot with a black rubber sole. Solitary burned out headlamps bobbing in the backwash. And slack rusted steel cables that ran out of the river and up the steep wooded riverbank to who knows where. I yanked them out of the muck in a vain attempt to see what mysterious objects they were attached to, but never succeeded in finding an end point. They were dangerously untwisting with age, with individual steel threads broken off and forming vicious pointed spikes. Only the mercy of the water gods kept me from jabbing myself and perishing with septicemia. 

I also cavorted on many a lakeside beach in Minneapolis. Always on the lookout for minnows, tadpoles, turtles, and frogs. Dragonflies perched on the cattails, owlishly observing my efforts to corral a shiner in my cupped hands. As a boy I always felt overpressed with useless and capricious rules imposed on me by hoards of adults, but when I was by the water those same stifling ukases always seemed remote and unenforceable. I grew up believing that the beach meant freedom.  

When I arrived in Venice, Florida, at age 18, to attend the Ringling Brothers Clown College, I was met with a tantalizing and intoxicating smell that curled my toes. Saltwater! 

I spent every spare moment at the beach in front of the Venice Villas, where I shared an apartment with five other students. I relished standing stock still in the sand as the water washed over my feet and they gradually sank into the fine grains right up to my ankles. A canal emptied into the Gulf a few yards down the beach, forming a lagoon where alligators patrolled for little white poodles that old ladies incautiously brought down on their flimsy leashes to exercise. 

 There is no breeze to match a saltwater beach breeze. It stiffens the hair and picks at the eyes. Hunger and thirst are magnified into an insane animal lust that can only be satisfied with grilled red snapper steaks, mugs of steaming crab bisque, baked potatoes the size of bowling balls, and flagons of hissing mineral water (what did you expect: the drinking age in Florida was 21.) A half dozen veteran Ringling clowns had their winter homes in Venice, and they had me over for such meals on a regular basis -- I think they were half enthralled and half repelled by the stamina and urgency of my ravenous gluttony. I ate a dozen oyster fritters in one sitting at Swede Johnson's house -- a feat of digestive folly that inspired the old clown to nickname me 'Pinhead' for the rest of my professional career with Ringling. 

A few years later I was in Thailand as a missionary for my church. There are nearly two thousand miles of beach in Thailand, but Elders on a mission for the Church were verboten to go anywhere near them. A swim in those inviting tropical waters meant being sent home, defrocked and disgraced. So I could only gaze longingly at those luscious beaches from a sanctified distance for two whole years.

But twenty years later I returned to teach English, a sad and divorced middle-aged waif, and began a steamy love affair with beaches from Kho Samet to Khrabi that soon cured my melancholia. 

On a beach in Thailand you first rent yourself a large canvas deck chair, at one hundred baht for the full day. (That's about three American dollars.) You station it under a nearby palm tree and immediately send one of the little boys that hang around the beach like sand fleas to the nearest bamboo seafood shack for a banana leaf filled with shrimp fried rice, for 50 baht. Also some green papaya salad that is prepared with a mortar and pestle and that is concocted with a generous portion of lightly boiled shrimp and raw crab. (It's a lot of fun to spit bits of crab shell, like a kid spitting watermelon seeds.) After your repast, you stroll down the pure white sand and take a leisurely dip in the water, which is the temperature of lukewarm soup. Thoroughly refreshed, you return to your deck chair for a snooze. When you awaken it's time for another dip, and then, as the tropical sun begins its descent and the breeze freshens to a cooling caress, a lovely girl comes by to offer a foot massage for two hundred baht (about six American dollars.) At the same time another lovely young thing may come by to offer a haircut or a manicure. And the kanom jiin vendor stops by to see if you'd like a bowl or two. After your foot massage it's time to walk along the beach awhile, looking for bits of brain coral and sea glass to take back home for the whatnot cabinet. Chances are good you'll run into a not-too-sober mahout with his baby elephant in tow, and for 20 baht you can take all the selfies you want with the cute little pachyderm. Even ride it, for another 20 baht. Time for one more swim and then settle back into your deck chair as the local Thais start a driftwood bonfire and pour out their hearts with traditional romantic ballads while they pour in gallons of Chang beer. 

One may, of course, meet Someone on the beach in Thailand, and then the night becomes more than gem-like stars and dazzling moonlight that reflects playfully off the gentle waves. Or one may not. If the latter, there is always a nearby pier where the fishing fleet has dropped off a fresh catch of something or other that goes into a communal pot of spicy curry. A bowl of it, with rice, will set you back 20 baht. 

You end the night with a freshwater shower on the beach, which costs all of 5 baht. And then toddle off to bed. 

Since Thailand has over sixty school holidays during the year, I had plenty of opportunity to enjoy the beach just as described above. When I had to leave Thailand due to some work visa issues, I felt I was abandoning the nearest approach to Paradise a man could have in this nasty old world. It's been eight years since I left those entrancing beaches in Thailand. Today I look out my patio doors as the snow settles over the grey Wasatch Mountains for the winter. But I've got my memories of those glorious beaches -- and a bit of brain coral tucked away in the drawer where I keep my stamps, fountain pen, and envelopes. 

Overweight Tourists Discriminated Against in Greece -- Shh! World Noise Crisis -- Those Sneaky Advertisers -- Teacher Pay

Along with the cacophony from planes, trains and automobiles, the din pumped through headphones, at fitness classes and during rock concerts is damaging our health, the WHO’s guidelines published on Tuesday said. Even toys can present an auditory danger.

WJS

When you go to Upper Volta to escape the awful din

of the traffic and construction, and those tunes that ring like tin;

when, I say, you flee in panic, to Lake Biwa in Japan,

decibels will fly around you like some noisy Peter Pan.

There is no escape from clamor; caterwauling is our fate --

Lest librarians can conquer noise pollution at the gate! 

***********************************

Those sneaky advertisers with 'Paid Content' written wee

keep fooling me so that I read their ads consistently.

It's true their graphics sparkle with a gorgeous sex appeal,

but I ain't in the market for a Rolex or oatmeal.

I'm going to the news stand for a paper copy so

the ads stand out so plainly I can notice friend from foe. 

**********************************

The wages of American teachers have dropped over the past decade. That’s a long way from similarly wealthy European nations such as Germany, for example, where teachers are among the nation’s top earners and can make more money than Web developers or sometimes even entry-level doctors.  Washington Post

I do not think our teachers need big paychecks anymore.

It would make them cocky and they might become a bore.

Teaching for good money is not how this country works.

Not when you are training generations of store clerks.

Pure ignorance is something that we dare not really douse;

for look how well it's working up there in our own White House!

****************************

Greece has banned "overweight" tourists from riding donkeys on the popular island of Santorini, after activists complained that they were suffering spinal injuries.  CNN

A tourist who sits on a burro
in Greece will be given a thorough
test of his weight,
and if it's too great
he'll walk in a humbling furrow.

Gwyneth Paltrow -- Free Coffee in the Workplace -- "Don't Call Me Mormon, Cuz Them's Fightin' Words!" -- A Forgotten Lotto Ticket -- Shut Up, Alexa

Commonly used nicknames for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints — such as the “Mormon Church” or “LDS Church” — should now be added to the list of things the church opposes, said church President Russell M. Nelson.

WaPo

A Saint by any other name

is a dirty rotten shame.

"Mormon" is an insult grave,

not a term that members crave.

And "LDS' is now taboo

and treated like a bugaboo.

Call 'em Christians, if you dare;

for it is true, and only fair! 

********************************

A MILLION DOLLAR LOTTO TICKET WENT UNCLAIMED FOR NEARLY A YEAR -- THEN A MAN CHECKED HIS COAT POCKET . . .

(Headline from the Washington Post)

I'm going through my pants and shirts

and even balled up socks;

if need be I will even search

beneath the garden rocks.

For memory hath served me ill

in times past, holy geez!

And I might have a Lotto win

inside my BVDs.

************************************

*************************************

Wanda McDaniel, 63, received a Google Home Mini for Christmas from her daughter. She used it without incident until August, when she was watching TV and the machine announced it had set a 1 p.m. alarm—for “cocaine and reefer.”  WSJ

With computers talking back,

I'll go on my own attack;

Don't give me advice or chime

when you think I'm up to crime.

Lippy internet machine!

You can stay in my latrine.

**************************

A glut of timber has piled up in the Southeast. There are far more ready-to-cut pine trees than the region’s mills can saw or pulp. The surfeit has crushed timber prices in Mississippi, Alabama and several other states.  WSJ

My true love planted pine trees for our golden wedding day.
The future looked so cozy as in breezes they did sway.
Then housing came a-crashin' down and all that crummy wood
for toothpicks and for matchsticks isn't even any good.
The Ag Department sure has been a bunch of loose deceivers;
I reckon now we'll have to start with breedin' up some beavers!

*********************************

Free coffee in the workplace is a perk I must demand.

Otherwise I'd spend per year about a dozen grand.

Fresh coffee in the morning and a latte during break;

a gallon during conf'rence calls to keep me wide awake.

A pumpkin spice espresso with my lunch is such a treat.

( A shot of Irish mocha on the sly cannot be beat.)

Late afternoon when emails pile up like an avalanche,

only lots of cold brew my despair can ever stanch.

Then when the boss insists I hang around to hear him boast,

I think of him as coffee beans that I'm about to roast.

I don't know if ingesting so much caffeine is too smart,

but right now it's the only way my brain I can jumpstart. 

***************************************************

Gwyneth Paltrow’s wellness brand Goop has promoted “energy stickers” made from “the same conductive carbon material NASA uses to line space suits” — even though the stickers had nothing to do with space suits at all. And coffee enemas. And vaginal steaming.  WaPo

Beware Ms. Paltrow's snake oil brand;

it isn't worth a pile of sand.

When asked if she herself will use

any of it, she'll refuse

to confirm it with a smile

that comes straight from a crocodile.

All suckers like a pretty face,

so with Bill Gates she now keeps pace.

It's Monday: All the News is Bad -- It's Columbus Day: Let's Celebrate the Potato -- SCOTUS Reputation at All Time Low

It's Monday; all the news is bad.

Stocks are down, the world's gone mad.

Even breakfast tastes suspect,

with additives and panic flecked.

The Autumn colors all seem moot,

while taking on the dread commute.

The headlines in the paper read

like a charnel house's creed.

Then the sun comes breaking through,

and at Starbucks there's no queue.

So I will face today with calm

and shout a quip, if not a psalm.

*************************************

Before Columbus landed on Hispaniola, the European diet was a bland affair. In many northern climes, crops were largely limited to turnips, wheat, buckwheat and barely. Even so, when potatoes began arriving from America, it took a while for locals to realize that the strange lumps were, comparatively speaking, little nutritional grenades loaded with complex carbohydrates, amino acids and vitamins.   WaPo

Columbus brought tubers to Spain;

thus french fries our globe did obtain.

With kugel and chips

the world fairly drips,

and hash browns add to our weight gain.

****************************

Polls did not show Kavanaugh with majority support, and his vote was almost exclusively along party lines. Some House Democrats have vowed impeachment proceedings for what they consider his untruthfulness during the Senate hearings.  WaPo 

The highest courtroom in the land

is feeling a bit less than grand.

With Kavanaugh there

goodwill becomes rare --

I don't think they'll need a brass band.

*********************************

Google exposed the private data of hundreds of thousands of users of the Google+ social network and then opted not to disclose the issue this past spring, in part because of fears that doing so would draw regulatory scrutiny and cause reputational damage, according to people briefed on the incident and documents reviewed by The Wall Street Journal.

Even Google cannot keep

data safe from those who creep

through the information pile,

looking for good things to file.

But like all big enterprise

their customers do not get wise

unless reporters post a scoop,

and make public all the poop.

It seems like each new data breach

grows in scope and depth and reach.

The lowdown on your life is had

by ev'ry knave and nosy cad.

the season of me

a cat has only

one season it tolerates:

the season of me

Toy Shortage Looms for Christmas! -- How to Shred a Million Dollars -- Who Wins the China Trade War?

While other general retailers are looking to increase their toy sales, no store can completely replace Toys “R” Us in providing the broad selection of toys and reliable supply of hot products on shelves in the days before Christmas, say toy makers and analysts.   WSJ

I'm making my own gifts this year.

Since toys will be scarce, I do fear.

For Billy a top

that over will flop;

for Suzy homemade flat root beer.

***********************************

On Friday, a Banksy painting titled “Girl with Red Balloon” was being auctioned at Sotheby’s in London . . . The bidding climbed to $1.4 million . . . 

Right then, the painting’s canvas began scrolling downward, seeming to pass through its elaborate gilded frame — and reappearing below in neat, vertical strips. Later, Sotheby’s would explain that a shredder was hidden inside the frame.   WaPo

If more artists had the intention

of such a cutthroat intervention

we might end the fad

of works that are bad

and make room for cogent invention.

*******************************

President Trump and his supporters say he is winning his trade war with Beijing. Just look at the Chinese economy. The nation is dealing with a mountain of debt, and its growth and investment are slowing down. But are Trump’s trade policies responsible for China’s mounting problems? And if Trump keeps on pushing, can he win? And if so, at what cost?  LATimes 

In wars of a mercantile type,

no matter the bluff or the hype,

the loser is not

the moneyed big shot

but common folk shot down like snipe.

The Saints and their Sweet Tooth

In Utah the Saints have a sweet tooth for sure.

Jello and choc'late are served up de jure.

The Holidays coming mean pastries and pies

will multiply quick as erotic fruit flies.

The candy and cookies each Saint will soon eat

would cause even gluttons to sound the retreat.

No creed or communion can match their sweet vice;

they'll eat anything made of sugar and spice.

Why do they find any old sweet a delight?

How can they swallow each syrupy bite?

Perhaps they've been told to enjoy butter brickle

because in the next life there's only dill pickle!