[RCL]

This might nearly be one,

The Hoax

He calls it a hoax
On just plain folks
By the Wokes.

His words are smoke
A con man’s cloak
Meant to provoke

And lead dolt blokes
That Covid chokes
To their death croaks.

His life’s The Hoax.


Appeared early Covid pandemic on Jerry Jazz Musician.

[RCL]

What’s Up in Eden?

God’s spitting image is man
Woman is made from man.
She is the mammalian
Mama of the human.

Aside: The Georgian word for man is mama

[Carl Copeland]

Cool, Ralph. If I could, I’d sign this thread over to you.

[Ann Drysdale]

Thomas Hood was a dab hand at this sort of thing...

A Nocturnal Sketch

Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun—one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,—
Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out,—
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic pit sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas upblazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl
About the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,
And while they ’re going, whisper low, “No go!”

Now puss, when folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers, waking, grumble, “Drat that cat!”
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.

Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;—
But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears—what faith is man’s!—Ann’s banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice;
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows’ woes!

[Carl Copeland]

Incredible, Ann! Thank you! Hood is a poet I’ve never heard of, and born just two weeks before Pushkin—my favorite period.

[Roger Slater]

I also wrote a poem where every line ends in two rhyming words. I think it might have been for a Spectator contest, though I don't recall winning or what the rubric of the contest was. I think of it as a children's poem:

TWIN BEAKS

In the summer heat, meet
the robin redbreast, nest-
ing upon the slim limb
of my backyard tree. See
her two matching hatching
chicks surging, emerging
from their cracked shells' spells
with feathers yet wet,
beaks upturning, yearning
for a feeding, needing
their mother's chewed food
to help them grow so
strong they too can fly high.

[Carl Copeland]

Roger, you do have a gift for intelligent children’s verse. And as stunned as I am by Hood’s poem, I think less would have been more. You wisely knew when to stop.

[RCL]

Lovin' the variations!

That’s No-Man

If he could warmly croon
or play a bass bassoon
that would be a boon
but it would stop too soon.

This kind of man’s a no-man
molded from a man-plan
a man without a life-span
an isolated now-man.

The faux man is jejune
head echoing the moon
his torso a balloon
and vapor in his ruin.

Our essence turned to ice,
he mirrors mankind twice.

[RCL]

And for the Krismas Kids,

Snowmen

When seven, Tony made a snowman:
a bulbous ball on which to rest
a slightly smaller stomach span.

And then a strong and manly chest,
a nicely curly rounded head
a face he felt the very best!

His eyes were brown like toasted bread
and red his little nose and lips,
but what he thought stayed in his head.

One sunny day his mouth, in drips,
slowly melted, seemed to say:
I am you with colder lips!

[Carl Copeland]

More good stuff, Ralph. I’d have given up on this thread long ago if it weren’t for you. Here’s a 1963 monorhyme from John Updike:


I Missed His Book, but I Read His Name

“The Silver Pilgrimage,” by M. Anantanarayanan … 160 pages. Criterion. $3.95.
                                                                                —The New York Times

Though authors are a dreadful clan,
To be avoided if you can,
I’d like to meet the Indian,
M. Anantanarayanan.

I picture him as short and tan,
We’d meet, perhaps, in Hindustan,
I’d say, with admirable élan,
“Ah, Anantanarayanan,

I’ve heard of you. The Times once ran
A notice on your novel, an
Unusual tale of God and Man.”
And Anantanarayanan

Would seat me on a lush divan
And read his name—that sumptuous span
Of “a”s and “n”s more lovely than
“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan”—

Aloud to me all day. I plan
Henceforth to be an ardent fan
Of Anantanarayanan,
M. Anantanarayanan.