Tomorrow's Timericks: Fox News Intensifies Its Pro-Trump Politics as Dissenters Depart

 

If you're working for Fox News/you had better share their views/dissing Trump will cook your goose/you'll be booted from Fox Noose/play it safe and park your scruples/at the door with purple mooples.  

skipping stones upon a lake/will a fellow happy make/picking dandelion flowers/makes for many pleasant hours/feeding pigeons in the park/gives to life a certain spark/such unimportant occupations/lessen all our aggravations.  

if you want prosperity/fiddle with the Bible, see/Stick in something incidental/your wealth will not be accidental/just make sure the copyright/won't your backside come and bite.

Today's Timericks: GOP senators block Jan. 6 Commission, likely ending bid for independent probe of Capitol riot (WaPo)

 

Another hack from Russia/how many does that make?/I'm losing count quite often/It gives me a headache/a cyber war is raging/so where are all our troops?/The Biden folk may talk big/but all they say is "oops!"

the taste of summer, where I'm from/was always just plain bubblegum/My folks did not go in for frills/we'd get a cramp or other ills/and so a nickel I would blow/on nothing but Bazooka Joe.

Republicans refuse to see/riots as real history/the ruckus in D.C. took place/in comic books or outer space/and so they never will concede/to scrutinize such chicken feed.

WASHINGTON — President Biden’s $6 trillion budget bets on the power of government to propel workers, families and businesses to new heights of prosperity in a rapidly changing economy, by redistributing income and wealth from high earners and corporations to grow the middle class.  NYT.

Uncle Sam is handing out/money with his mighty clout/taxing high and mighty so/the bourgeoisie can grow and grow/Is it wise or so humane/to set up such a gravy train?

Today's Timericks: ExxonMobil rebel shareholders win board seats (WaPo)

 

Alexander, called the Great/conquered lots of real estate/till his soldiers did rebel/telling him to go to hell/they did yearn for the Aegean/never more to go sight-seein'/so they quick marched back to find/their wives had all turned nonaligned.  

In my foolish middle age/I yearned for fame with steady rage/for interviews and viral force/and money to prevent divorce/But now I'm old and fat and shrewd/I only wish my prunes be stewed.  

stockholders at exxon-mobe/made the old guard all disrobe/then they put in leaders who/did not have a bugaboo/about greening back the land/tho dividends just might get canned.

shyster lawyers on the scent/of the boobs who circumvent/vaccinations cuz they lack/the common sense of carpet tack/now are suing right and left/what they're doing I call theft/when will vaccines be conceived/that make people undeceived?  

Prose Poem: A poke in the eye with a sharp stick.

 

As I walked home from the Rec Center

I passed the mailman on the uneven

cement sidewalk;

The cement slabs frozen

in storm-tossed frenzy. 

He smiled at me and nodded.

"Gee, the mail is going out early today"

I said happily to myself.

And suddenly, 

without any external compulsion

or evident reason,

I became a happy man.

Happiness welled up inside of me

like a Texas gusher --

lifting me up into the clear

blue sky, soaked clean through

with a thorough delight in my 

surroundings.

Twin cottonwoods stood

sentinel at the next street corner;

the grass lay grizzled around them

with thick fuzz.

This, too, seemed right and good --

just the way things ought to be

on a fine day in late spring,

with brown summer haze hovering just

beyond the mountains.

"This sure beats being 

poked in the eye

with a sharp stick" 

I told a robin looking for

worms under a lilac bush.

He cocked his head

and stood his ground.

I was grateful for his

trust in me.

When I got home I mailed

a check to UNICEF.

Then I threw out 

all my medications

and went out on the patio

to count the colors in

the driveway gravel.

Prose Poem: We Never Know.

 

My neighbor Tom got very rich

selling a non-fungible token.

He bought me a string of sandalwood

meditation beads,

and then moved to Flathead Lake

in Montana,

where he built a huge log cabin.

He let me buy his old place for a song,

and I was happy to get it;

my house needed a new roof and

all the downstairs windows replaced.

Tom's place was in very good repair,

and nearly a third larger.

When I  moved in I found a trapdoor

down in the basement laundry room.

It was sealed shut, so I put a rug over

it and forgot about it.

Years later, after I had moved 

into one of the first terrariums

designed for humans on the Moon,

the new owners managed to pry open

the trapdoor to discover a complete set

of Maryknoll magazines from 1933 to

1969. In mint condition.

They weren't worth anything,

really.

But it just goes to show

that we never know,

do we?

Today's Timericks: Texas Lawmakers Move to Drop Most Handgun Licensing Requirements (NYT)

 

I read where money's pouring down/upon the Feds in DC Town/the taxes paid this year surpass/the growth of even pampas grass/I hope another stimmie check/is in the works for this redneck/cuz I done spent my last few cents/buyin' food and payin' rents.

In Myanmar good poetry (unlike this wretched piece of mine)/is powered by a moral force and savored like the finest wine/And so the autocrats agreed to put their poets all away/to keep Rangoon a wasteland where liberty can never stay.

everybody's got a pet/so they need to use a vet/they, in turn, have boosted fees/now they're banking overseas/don't invest in higher techs/horse doctors get bigger checks. 

Alexander, called the Great/conquered lots of real estate/till his soldiers did rebel/telling him to go to hell/they did yearn for the Aegean/never more to go sight-seein'/so they quick marched back to find/their wives had all turned nonaligned.  

Texas Greg is packin' heat/all common sense he sure has beat/Any Texan worth his salt/can buy a handgun with no-fault/the Governor is proud to guide/his people to more homicide.

In my foolish middle age/I yearned for fame with steady rage/for interviews and viral force/and money to prevent divorce/But now I'm old and fat and shrewd/I only wish my prunes be stewed.  

Prose Poem: Written on Jam.

 

Remember in all those old movies,

how the plot always blew up after

a newspaper headline appeared?

Announcing a birth

a death

a fortune won

a fortune lost

the start of a war

a new hero

or old villain found out?

Boy, that's what I always wanted --

a huge black headline with

my picture underneath

proclaiming me the Eighth 

Wonder of the World.

People would run down the hallway

waving the newspaper headline

like they were signaling a zeppelin.

My friends and family,

especially that snooty cousin

of mine,

would gape until their jaws

hit the floor.

Meanwhile

I would modestly disclaim

any special virtue or talent,

 telling reporters I was just an

average American boy with

an average American sweetheart

and an average American mutt

named Pomeroy.

Well

I finally got my name 

in big black headline letters

last week

after I saved a baby

from the talons of a hulking

Philippine monkey-eating 

eagle.

Single-handed.

Every newspaper in the country

ran the story, with my photograph.

And nobody, but nobody,

ran into the room waving

the paper above their head --

or glanced at my headline and

swooned in a dead faint --

or even had the decency to 

yell "Jumping Jehoshaphat!" 

in my face.

The whole thing might just

as well have been written

on jam.

And get this --

my snooty cousin just

went viral with an NFT

of him wearing a crown

of dandelions. 

Today's Timericks: Their Own Private Idaho: Five Oregon Counties Back a Plan to Secede (NYT)

 

five counties out in oregon think that they ought to split/and stick themselves in idaho, where there is holy writ/I hope they like potatoes and the horse and buggy age/and trains that only ever run on very narrow gauge.

do not kill the kangaroo/tho tasty in an aussie stew/be kind to hopping critters, since/you can always eat a quince/then feel humane and kindly too/oh, do not kill the kangaroo!

there's this guy named sabatini/who must have had a large martini/when he said that socrates/would be canceled like bad cheese/sabatini's point seems dim/since ancient athens poisoned him.

We're running out of babies/or so the experts say/women do not want them/and men are turning gay/but oldsters grow like mushrooms/they live so long that we/are entering an era/of post-senility.

Nowadays some gummy bears are laced with THC/and skittles get you higher than a tall sequoia tree/no telling where they'll put it next; perhaps in chicken soup/I wouldn't be surprised if hagen-daz/puts out a scoop.  

Russians think that melting ice/is as bad as loaded dice/without polar ice to keep/enemies at bay, they'll creep/right around the old north pole/putting ruskies in a hole/but by then, with water rised/we'll all be fully bapatized.  

Prose Poem: The Little Games.

 

Death came for me 

bearing a bag

of Krispy Kreme Donuts.

"That's thoughtful of you"

I told him.

He wore dirty white sneakers,

which took away from

the solemnity of the

whole thing.

"Do I get to play a game

or something first with you

in order to keep my soul?"

I asked him.

Silently he produced

a checkerboard.

I beat him in a dozen moves.

"Another game, perhaps?" 

I asked him politely.

He handed me a deck

of Uno cards.

His mistake:

I played Uno with my

family every Monday

night for nearly twenty years.

The cards kept slipping

through his bony fingers,

slowing him up considerably.

We had finished the donuts

and I was thirsty.

He ate most of them,

by the way.

"How about a drink of milk

before the next game?"

I asked.

He gave me a tepid glass

of buttermilk.

That's when I discovered

 Death is a sore loser.

Today's Timericks: Featuring Onions!

 

Why does mankind want a king/or emperor or anything/to tell him what to do and say/and where to live and what to pay/Since ancient pharaohs, and before/even in the Trojan War/royalty means avarice/I'd rather live just like the Swiss. 

Storming the Bastille is not/what the DC mob had thought/Paris rose impulsively/but DC was planned carefully/With the two events compared/the cops both times were unprepared. 

I eat onions for dessert/because I am an introvert/My breath means interlopers find/my presence kills their peace of mind/Even tho it may seem kinky/I chew scallions with my Twinkie.  

Jakarta doesn't have clean air/in fact it smells like underwear/Particulates do run so thick/they'd even make a hantu sick/So tourists, take a word from me/and detour straight to pure Bali. 

Australia's keeping borders closed/They do not want to be exposed/to viruses and other drek/so they have made a bottleneck/You can't get in for years to come/unless you bring them chewing gum.

 So China now on Mars has landed/and the planet they have branded/so they'll start to set up shop/and ev'ry Mons will have a cop.

Companies cannot get workers/seems to be too many shirkers/so they automate instead/the shiftless can just stay in bed/so if you want to work today/with robots you should learn to play.