Work and Pray.

 

Work and pray consistently

if you want God's guarantee,

not for wealth and fame per se,

but for hope each living day;

those who won't lie down when beat

find the Lord makes hardship sweet!

Today's timericks.

 

There was an old man in Texas/supplied by the electrical nexus/who during a storm/was not billed the norm/but got a blow to the solar plexus.  

In North Korea live a folk/most of whom soon will croak/if sanctions are not lifted/yet their blame is never shifted/to their leader who's a joke.

Lindsey Graham made a vow/No More Trump No Matter How!/Now he's golfing with the jerk/doing all his paperwork/Like the flame attracts the moth/Graham seeks that Ostrogoth.  

infrastructures cross the land/shaking like a palsied hand/no one knows just when they'll fail/from tornado, snow, or hail/raising taxes for a fix/will be Biden's greatest tricks.

Left up your heads forever.

 

Lift up your head and bow down no more.

The Lord in his mercy has settled the score.

What once was a wasteland, scattered and gone

by foolish actions now thrives with the dawn.

Fountains of honey and milk do await

those who believe God alone is all great.

 

Photo Essay: New Postcards to the President.

 

Companion, Comforter, and Guide.

 

When you have the Holy Ghost,

When it sits upon your heart,

You will feel a warmth unknown

to the carnal and upstart.

Seek this gift beyond all measure,

disregarding other treasure,

and your days will all be blessed

until you enter God's own rest.

Prose Poem: Thomas K. Plofchan and the Impenetrable Wall of Interlocking Plastic Bricks.

 

Thomas K. Plofchan ran away from home

at the the age of fifteen.

He made his way to a West Virginia 

coal mine, where he worked as an 

underground mechanic for six years.

Then he joined the Army and

served with distinction in Afghanistan.

He was honorably discharged in 2016,

and somehow wangled his way

into law school.

He passed the Bar in 2019.

Now he was sitting here

in front of me,

smoking a meerschaum pipe,

while I interrogated him.

I shuffled through his file

one more time, while I gathered

my thoughts.

"You have quite an impressive record"

I told him.

"No comment" was all he would reply.

"Do you know why you're here?" I asked him.

"No comment"

"And that you face a minimum of twenty years

in a maximum security prison if found guilty?" I 

rasped harshly. I was getting sick of his lack

of cooperation.

He needed to know I could do more

than just polish truncheons.

"My mouth and my stomach are

disconnected" he finally said.

"What?" I asked him.

"My mouth feels hungry even

when my stomach is full" he continued.

"Are you trying to obfuscate things?"

I asked him sternly.

He leaped out of his chair like a madman.

"There! I knew it!" he exclaimed.

"With that kind of a vocabulary

You're no more a barbarian than I am."

I tried to hide my blushes, but couldn't.

"Why, thank you" I said. "No one has said

anything so kind to me in years."

"You're just the kind of person we can use in our organization"

he whispered to me in small fonts.

"How so?" I asked him, in the same manner.

Once he explained things to me I began to see how mistaken

my unquestioning obedience to the state had been.

So I helped him escape.

We fled in an unmarked Agency car.

With my help, Plofchan's group was able

to hack into Lego's data base --

so the next time we march on the Capital,

it will be behind an impenetrable wall 

of interlocking plastic bricks.

THEN we'll see who laughs last . . . 

Today's timericks.

 

When life is dull and dingy

in all of your affairs,

just sit right down and holler

loud to everyone:  "Who cares!'

You will feel so much better

that capers you will cut,

and then you'll start to order

cheap kitsch from Fingerhut!

President Biden plans to warn Friday that “democratic progress is under assault” in many parts of the world, including the United States and Europe, in a major address to the Munich Security Conference as part of a morning focused heavily on foreign policy.    (WaPo)

The democratic process is in danger of decline/as fewer countries find it fit to tow that blessed line/Giving orders, gagging speech -- so cheap and simple, too/Leaders turn to gangsters for some sneaky jujitsu/and thus another government goes down the old cesspool/as the people mourn beneath their damn Lords of Misrule.

One night in Cancun was all that it took/to show that Ted Cruz was just a big schnook/His neighbors were freezing, with no power grid/while Teddy sipped rum and then dined on fried squid/When Senators know that their district's in peril/they head someplace warm with their tropic apparel.

 

God loveth a cheerful giver.

 

God loves a cheerful giver;

He blesses those who cede

of their earthly bounty

to those who are in need.

There is no secret to it;

just smile and give away

more than you think prudent,

and happy you will stay!

Prose Poem: The Mighty Bopp.

 

On a foggy, frog-choked night

I was visited by the ghost 

of Kay Kyser.

His wavering whisper gave me

to understand there was 

connivance afoot.

And I must spend millions

to dig it out, root and branch.

So I went to see the Mighty Bopp.

Now . . . I can't give you all the details;

there are too many lives at stake.

But there were ballots on an island

in the middle of a lake called Nimue.

Missing ballots. Hidden for centuries.

I was to bring them back.

Even if I had to hire

the Varangian Guard

to do it.

The Mighty Bopp promised 

that if I could bring those ballots

back in time,

virtue would triumph.

We marched through canebrake and enchanted glebe.

We camped amidst nettles and hardened muesli.

Our rations were just butterless scones and frisked out milp.

Nuncios barred our path, but we scattered them

by chanting 'Crinkum-Crankum.'

When we reached the Lake Nimue

the water was flecked with bosco petals,

while the murmuring scent of shaken ferns

stirred our souls to the quick.

And far out on the flaxen waters

stood the Isle of Lost Ballots.

We waded in.

The mud pulled at our spurs.

Slimy weeds slithered up our thighs.

We hacked our way through walls

of agar agar until the ballots 

lay at our feet,

fetid and complicit. 

My burliest men shouldered them

back to civilization --

 we lost half a dozen

good men in an ambuscade by

Cornish pasties before we reached

Headquarters.

Only to find that our ballots,

for which we had spilled our blood,

had turned into useless tin whistles

at the stroke of midnight.

And so . . . 

the Mighty Bopp had struck out.

Photo Essay: All New Postcards to the President.