Rogue oysters threaten to disrupt Tokyo Olympics, after officials shelled out $1 million for repairs. (Jennifer Hassan, for the WaPo.)

 

"What, me hurry?"

The walrus and the carpenter are needed right away

to clean up all the oysters clogging up ol' Tokyo Bay.

The sailing and the swimming and the floating are in peril,

as oysters that are roguish become vicious and quite feral.

Olympic water contests have been halted to consider

will they risk the athletes or give in to failure bitter.

Those darn Pacific oysters glue themselves to all debris

that floats upon the waters to a terrible degree.

They could sink an iceberg or a coal barge or a ferry;

they can't be served with lemon cuz they ain't too sanitary.

(I hope that this fiasco doesn't lead to hari kari.)

The Pitchers Whose Spin Rates Fell Most After a Crackdown on Sticky Substances. (Dedicated to sportswriter Tyler Kepner.)

 

Baseball pitchers are a breed

who feel pressured to succeed.

They have gotten pretty manic

throwing aero-damn-die-namic.

I'm not sure what all they've tried

to make their pitches curve and glide,

so this is just a partial guide:

Strands of bubble gum so pink

it makes umpires stop and think.

Bookish pitchers have been traced

to the use of library paste.

Mucilage from plants and snail

produce results that do not fail.

And of course a pitch is bent

with a dab of rubber cement.

Pine tar, asphalt, super glue --

in a pinch they all will do.

If a pitcher has chutzpah

he might even use some chaw.

In this techie age banal

could microchips be in the ball?

Or a nano-drone, I fear,

might sit astride the hurtling sphere.

Yes, pitchers are a breed that's wacky --

always searching for the tacky . . . 

Chinese Hackers in my Soup. (Dedicated to Lucy Craymer.)

 

Chinese hackers in my soup.

How can such an ethnic group

fiddle with my internet,

making life so vinaigrette?

I stay up all night afeared

of ransomware and cyber-weird.

Ain't the heat and drought severe

enough to make me drink strong beer?

And the joeys chased by dingoes

give my stomach pink flamingoes.

Now on top of that these creeps,

whom I would like to label '*bleeps*,'

are out to wreck my peace of mind --

just pour the Foster's til I'm blind . . . 

Prose Poem: There I was, minding my own business. (Dedicated to Hannah Knowles of the Washington Post.)

 

There I was,

minding my own business.

When nothing 

absolutely nothing

happened.

I'd been standing around,

minding my own business,

all day.

Didn't even take a 

bathroom break.

Just standing there,

not bothering anyone.

No eye contact with anyone.

Not a care in the world.

And nothing happened.

You can imagine my disappointment.

Or maybe you can't.

When you stand around

minding your own business

you have a right to expect

something sinister or foolish

or puzzling to

happen to you.

That's why people

stand around

minding their own business;

this is a well-understood

social convention:

An innocent man caught up

in a conspiracy

not of his own making.

But I minded my own business

in vain.

I went home without a 

bullet hole in my coat.

Without a note slipped

into my pocket.

Without being kidnapped,

arrested, or given a briefcase

with half a million dollars

in it.

Not even a trace

of radium dust

on my jacket.

I had a glass of warm milk

and went to bed.

And decided:

Tomorrow I will mind

someone else's business,

probably my brother's business,

and see what happens.

If he turns out to be an

international playboy

who turns into a werewolf

and robs banks during the 

full moon

I will give up Netflix

for Lent.

U.S. Habit of Backing Strongman Allies Fed Turmoil in Haiti. (NYT)

 

Americans are ailing, out of work, and in despair;

but furrin autocrats who pick our side have cash to spare.

We prop up shaky leaders with infusions from the mint

because we still are following some damn Cold War blueprint.

Like a mule we won't back up when once we pick a guy

to lead a foreign country, though he makes it a pigsty.

How long must we play Santa Claus and Dr. Seuss to those

who never show initiative but warn of dominoes?

The media scramble at the heart of Trump Book Summer. (WaPo)

 

Donald Trump,

the has-been frump,

mistakes the buzz

which he thinks does

surround the books

about his crooks

as something which

with proper pitch

will elevate

his sorry state

and mend his luster

and fans muster.

Sorry, bub,

but you're a flub --

and won't be back

on inside track

till ducks need visas

and Hades freezes.

Two Rods and a ‘Sixth Sense’: In Drought, Water Witches are Swamped. (NYT)

 

Water witches are all wet;

how can anybody bet

on some rods waved at the ground

while the waver turns around?

Dowsing is baloney sliced,

plus a heist that is high priced.

It takes a special connoisseur

to locate any aquifer --

and always they are deep below,

and drilling to them is real slow.

By the time the work's complete,

the dowser ain't around to greet

an empty hole as dry as bone,

or help his victims pay their loan.

If you want to fight a drought

pray for rain and not a tout.  

‘They’re Killing People’: Biden Denounces Social Media for Virus Disinformation. (NYT)

 

Go online for truth complete;

you will find it very neat.

Wrapped up in a bow of drek;

just as good as bouncing check.

All the world doth like to boast

they have info, not compost,

from a source that's unimpeached

(Yet strangely never can be reached.)

Like the fabled lemming, who

jumps without a proper view

of its fatal fall to ground,

are the folks who won't come 'round

when presented with the proof

that the doctors tell the troof

about vaccination need --

I hope they never interbreed.

I Alone Can Fix This Poem.

 

I alone can fix this poem;

right now it doesn't scan.

The verses are uneven

and belong in garbage can.

But give me four years on the job

and you will see the diff;

although I'll have to push a few

vile traitors off a cliff.

I will make it great again,

this sorry piece of tripe;

'twill glitter with acuity

and overflow with hype.

I'll tear out all the leftist tropes;

nor rainbows cute employ --

the prevalence of voter fraud

shall be my whipping boy.

And then you'll see this mighty poem

rear up it's head in pride;

a Nobel Prize it shall obtain

or my name ain't Bromide!

A shortage of computer chips is keeping automakers from producing enough cars to meet rising demand. Used cars are scarce, too. (NYT)

 

"You gotta a car?"

"You gotta a car?"

The query echoes

near and far.

No matter what the price of gas --

America must drive en masse!

And dealerships both new and used

are feeling frightened and abused.

Those little dinky chips that we

took for granted stupidly

are scarce as hen's teeth nowadays,

leading to unfilled driveways.

Even junkers drivers crave

and caution for old lemons waive.

With passions running high and hearty

a car thief gets a necktie party!

When oh when will chips return?

When can rubber we all burn?

Woe is me, has fate decreed

returning to velocipede? 

No! It shall not happen thus --

our wheels are not superfluous!

We must have Ford and Lexus too --

while greenhouse gas goes up the flu!