Monday, January 19, 2015

Failing to look past our differences

Rigs of the Time (cont.)
based on some old song
The next is the Republican
I must bring him in
He writes laws for the rich
and he thinks it's no sin!
His love for our freedom
he'll loudly avow
Then it's "Up yer skirts, lassies,
here comes the law now!"
Singing "Honesty's all out of fashion!"
Oh these are the rigs of the time, time, me boys!
These are the rigs of the time!

The next is the Democrat
I must bring him in
He goes where the wind blows
and he thinks it's no sin!
He's proud to exclude
all the racists and cranks
but he still takes his cue
from oil drillers and banks!
Singing "Honesty's all out of fashion!"
Oh these are the rigs of the time, time, me boys!
These are the rigs of the time!

It's no wonder that butter's a shilling the pound...

by Jeremy Cantor
in Volume 3 Issue 2
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Monday, January 12, 2015

Cold Weather Passes

The Passionate Playboy to His Prey of the Week
with apologies to Christopher Marlowe
Come on and be my part-time love,
And we'll make life a pleasure groove.
We'll sit on hills and meditate.
Come on and be my part-time mate.

And we will run upon the sand
On all the beaches hand in hand.
We'll lie half naked in the sun,
Swill booze, and have all kinds of fun.

You'll really love my waterbed.
We'll have a blast. Who needs to wed?
We'll plant some flowers. For beauty? Nope!
They'll serve to camouflage our dope.

A gown from Frederick's, lady fair,
So sheer you'll wonder if it's there—
Of joys like these you'll have your pick.
Come on and be my part-time chick.

We'll have the gang in this weekend.
I'll let you swing with my best friend.
I offer wondrous joys to you
Don't break my heart; say not "adieu"!

--

Prey of the Week's Reply to the Passionate Playboy
with apologies to Sir Walter Raleigh
If all the world and love were young
And truth in any playboy's tongue,
These shallow vows would not me move
To come and be your part-time love.

I'm in no shape to jog or run,
and spacing out is not much fun.
Skin cancer's such a threat, you know.
The beach is not the place to go.

I've no desire to float half-crazed
With a playboy bleary-eyed and dazed
Who goes through fifty girls a year
And spends his weekends steeped in beer.

You plan to share me with your friend?
Your generosity knows no end!
Your rotten ideas really stink.
I recommend you see a shrink.

both by Janice Canerdy
in Volume 3 Issue 2
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Monday, January 5, 2015

Rosy Cheeks

To Urchins, to Clean Up your Grime 
with apologies to Robert Herrick
Gather your clothes, Bud, while you may;
  You'd better start complying.
And do it now or there's hell to pay—
  Tonight you'll be a-crying.

Your furious Grampa Kevin, son,
  Is tired from his betting,
And soon the last race will be run,
  And home he'll be a-getting.

His rage, no question, is the worst
  When his nag's a poor performer;
He's hot to vent, and should he burst
  Your hide will soon be warmer.

So clean up toys; I'll hide the wine;
  Let's hope it's not too scary;
Remember, once, you crossed the line;
  Now be forever wary.

by Christopher Scribner
in Volume 3 Issue 2
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Monday, December 29, 2014

Erecting

Kubla Can't
with a nod to Samuel Taylor Coleridge
If Kubla Khan did currently
his stately pleasure dome decree,
he'd first need to get permission
from the planning board commission;
and only if his building specs
had all been duly scanned and checked,
and sent out for neighborhood review,
to the City Clerk of Xanadu.
Still—he'd run afoul of codes
that set the arches' max stress loads;
the caves of ice would have to go—
not ecological, you know.
And as for "deep romantic chasm,"
unless it's wetlands, no one has 'em!
He'd be lucky to build at all
near anything alluvial,
what with riparian set-backs,
he'd never get his cul-de-sac
near any "sacred river." Ha!
Much less a sex basilica!
"He wants a pleasure dome? Good lord!"
protest the neighbors and school boards,
"There's zoning laws for porno sites!"
Fat chance he'd ever get the right
to build on ground where children gather;
a "lofty" plan would fare no better:
he'd find out there's no "laissez faire"
if he tried to build the dome in air!
He's drunk on milk of Paradise,
but our zoning board will set him right.

by Catherine McGuire
in Volume 3 Issue 2
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Monday, December 22, 2014

Quiet Office?

Note to Supervisor
with apologies to Richard Le Gallienne
I meant to do my work today—
But a tabby rested upon my hand,
and her purr insisted I pet her head,
as she parked her butt on my keyboard pad.

And her wet nose pushed at my typing hands,
moving my fingers from the keys,
creating a memo of her own,
with ampersands and lots of zzzzzs.

by Réne-Claire Spencer
in Volume 3 Issue 2
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