When you’re a tsar they let you do it

Floridamandias

I met a pollster with the latest news

Who said—“Fleece vests and shiny boots of rock

Litter the Everglades. Near them, in the ooze,

Half sunk, a ruined campaign lies, in hock,

Disorganized. The race was his to lose.

‘Kick immigrants and fags,’ his handlers said,

‘LGBT—rile up the common folk.’

But out the gate the effort’s looking dead.

On OAN and Fox the chyron reads:

He’s Ron DeSantimandias, Scourge of Woke;

The budding fascist that this country needs!

It hasn’t worked. In Mar-a-Lago far

The Former Guy maintains a solid lead,

The MAGA hordes are sticking with the Tsar.”

 

“The Hamadryad of Ragweed”

(The doggerel and the illustration are both by Ed Fisher, and appeared in Horizon Magazine Volume VIII, No. 4, Autumn 1966. I believe today may be the first time these lines have been rendered in machine-readable form.)

In ancient Greece, beside the Wine-
Dark sea, ’twixt earth and ether,
A race of beings, not divine
But not quite human, either,
Inhabited the smiling land
In paralyzing numbers—
In every stream, or every stand
Of oaks, or of cucumbers.

From lowest reed bed by the sea
To loftiest Hymettus
They dwelt in every bush and tree
And every head of lettuce.
No scribe could tally up their ranks,
Nor bold amanuensis
(It would have flooded memory banks
And overwhelmed the census).

Delightful female forms had they
And lovely names like “Aegle”
And “Lotis,” “Lara,” “Dryope,”
And sometimes they were vaguely
Perceived by furtive mortal eye
—A dazzling sight to pitch on
Of perfect bosom, gleaming thigh,
Unhampered by a stitch on.

No wonder, then, the groves of Greece
Were full of would-be voyeurs
And Kings were robbed of mental peace
While Queens consulted lawyers;
The Gods themselves were not averse
To dallying with these Naiads
Though Goddesses would weep and curse
And mutter jeremiads.

Nor were the Nymph and Naiads loath
Nor overly retiring;
Their job of fostering the growth
Of plants was uninspiring;
They found it hard to be demure,
To stick to girlish chatter
Or to delight in what was pure-
Ly vegetable matter.

So, now and then, from every stem,
Or pool, or branch arboreal
A lovely figure would emerge,
Aquiver and corporeal,
A blush or two, a soft “yoo-hoo”
—A male would catch a sight of her;
A “view halloo!” a hot pursue,
And then he’d make a night of her.

The forests rang with constant cry
Of men and Gods and Satyrs;
While from their beds amid the rye,
The tulips and the taters,
The Dryads rose, took shape, displayed
Their succulent totality—
No Self-denying Ordinance stayed
Their consummate carnality.

The Nymphs of Oak and Elm enjoyed
A string of peccadilloes,
The Ferns were constantly employed,
And so were all the Willows;
The Cowslips were a frequent catch
In countless lustful gambols;
Despite a tendency to scratch
So was the Nymph of Brambles.

Alone amidst this lightsome set
One lovely creature languished
With downcast cheek and eyelids wet,
Emitting murmurs anguished;
Untouched, unbroached, for her the joys
Of love remained untasted,
Though oft approached by men and boys
Their efforts were quite wasted.

For from her lips and nostrils proud
And from her hair’s gold glory
There swirled an irritating cloud
Of tiny 𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘦
That cast the most appalling spell
On all would-be attackers
That made them cough and itch and swell
And sneeze like firecrackers.

Thus wracked, no lover could begin
(Though she submitted docilely);
They’d try, with flaming eye and skin,
“Kerchoo-ing” most colossally,
To make a pass, embrace, or pet,
To rise above distraction
—But neither lass nor lad could get
A moment’s satisfaction.

No hardy hero of the Greeks
(Accomplished womanizers,
To whom a maiden’s kicks and shrieks
Were merely appetizers)
Could face resistance such as 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴
So shameful and so baffling,
Could boldly grasp or blithely kiss
While sniffling and snaffling!

And though from far and near they came
Determined on a try at
Her scatheless virtue, none could claim
The Ragweed Hamadryad.
Brave Spartans, hardy men of Thrace,
And wily Trapezuntites
All fled her pollen-flushed embrace
With volleys of “𝘎𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘴!”

Even the thirsting Gods above
Could only heave a sigh at
The unpossessed attractions of
The Ragweed Hamadryad.
Priapus raged and Bacchus wept
And Comus was no calmer;
Despite these fits they primly kept
A healthy distance from her.

At last, one day, great Zeus looked down
And found her figure pleasing;
With knowing smile and tucked-up gown,
His bolt and sceptre seizing.
He stepped to earth; they met, they clasped,
In raptures paroxysmic
They tossed like ocean vessels grasped
By forces cataclysmic.

The heavens blazed as, wildly, crazed,
They spent their passions hoarded
While passing strangers stopped, amazed,
And recklessly applauded;
And when at last she cried “enough”
He rose up, enigmatic,
And promptly vanished in a puff
Of multicolored static.

This Mightiest of Scamps had done
What legions had attempted;
From ragweed pollen he, alone,
Seemed totally exempted.
With greatest ease he’d won the prize
This courier anointed,
Nor cough, nor sneeze, nor red-of-eyes
Had stayed his rounds appointed.

And all the Greeks with paeans praised
His feat apocalyptic
But when the 𝘩𝘰𝘸 of it was raised
Great Zeus’s smile was cryptic;
He kept his questioners at bay
And kept his reputation.
In truth, his only secret lay
In Careful Preparation.

—This Romeo, before the show
And well behind the scenes
Had smeared himself from head to toe
With antihistamines
And thus protected had attained
His triumph transcendental
But to the public he explained:
“All allergies are mental.”

More light verse

Do not throw Rudy under that big bus,
Old fools should dodge and weave and softly say:
“Evade, evade all this impeachment fuss.”

Though bagmen, caught, are scarcely beauteous
Who go on CNN unwisely, they
Should not go gentle under that big bus.

Such men, enablers all, surround us, thus,
Why sacrifice one pitiful roué?
Evade, evade all this impeachment fuss.

A clown who sought to suborn Kievan Rus’
To make of “Sleepy Joe” Trump’s lawful prey
Should not go gentle under that big bus.

Lawyers, high-paid, will warn their client, “Just
Stonewall, or plead the Fifth, and then you may
Evade, evade all this impeachment fuss.

“And on the news, Mayor G., do not discuss,
But merely hint at pardon, and you’ll stay
Far from the path of that advancing bus
And thus elude all this impeachment fuss.”

The Tweetstorm of Donald J. Trumprook

Scusate i perdenti e gli odiatori, ma il mio I.Q. è uno dei più alti e lo sapete tutti! Per favore, non sentirti così stupido o insicuro, non è colpa tua.

      Let us go then, me and you,
As the scandals crowd out all the other news
Like a porn star paid and splayed upon a mattress;
Let us read, within these rumpled crumb-strewn sheets,
The incoherent tweets
Of sleepless nights upon the throne of ease
While pinching out my message by degrees:
Tweets with which I push and pull the government
With criminal intent
But I’m not capable of much reflection...

I don’t regret, or still less rue it—
When you’re a star, they let you do it.

In the House the members congregate
Thinking back on Watergate.

      The Democrats will try to stop construction of my wall,
So beautiful, so perfect, so unclimbable, my wall,
That keeps the rapists, gangs and dealers out of here,
The border camps where wetback babies crawl...
Babies. Yeah, that Epstein guy—a loser, that’s for sure
Nabbed at the airport, made his last farewell,
And once the prison guards had fallen fast asleep,
Was left (who knew?) to hang around his cell.

      And indeed they will serve time,
The yellow cowards who still ignore my tweets,
Copping their pleas like Cohen in open court;
They will serve time, they will serve time
Or if they play it safe and decide to be discreet;
There will be time to perjure and negate,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That go into a first-class license plate;
Time for thee but not for me,
And time yet for a hundred indiscretions,
And to evade another hundred questions,
Like in the days of Sarah Huckabee.

In the House the staff attorneys huddle
Plotting further trouble.

      And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do U care?’
Time to descend the escalator,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: “What’s that thing upon his head?
Some animal, some possum, must have crawled there: is it dead?”)
My necktie, made in China, polyester, red and shiny—
(They will say: “How is it that his fingers are so tiny?”)
Is it fair
My press is so adverse?
It’s called executive time.
For decisions and rescissions which a court will soon reverse.

But I have blown them off already, blown them all—
The courts, the Congress...enablers and buffoons!
I have measured out my life with cofveve spoons;
I’ve heard the voices leaking, leaking with an eye
Upon the main chance there in the green room.
            So how dare they presume?

      And I’ve denounced the spies and traitors, slammed them all—
The whistleblowers trilling with their same old songs,
And when I’m called upon it, called on CNN,
When Fake News flacks will not excuse my gall,
Then how—heaven forfend—
To spin all of the revelations of my wrongs?
            And can we just assume

      That I have sold the Russians secrets, let them pick?—
As I am perfectly entitled to
(It says so right there in Article Two!)
Is it semen on a dress
That makes me such a mess?
No, that was what’s-her-face, that Monica Lewinski chick.
      And should I cop a plea?
            And what’s in it for me?

      Shall I say, I have golfed all day on well-mown greens
The only thing that makes my putter rise
And dropped the ball routinely some two feet from the hole?...

I should have stayed a star on pay TV
Hustling my brand to easy dimwit marks.

      And the rubes who watch the news, they take it placidly! Soothed by Fox TV,
Tucker Carlson...or Hannity
Always dependable, always for me.
Should I, having satisfied my vices,
Rouse myself to instigate another crisis?
But though I have gorged and bloated, binged and purged,
Though I have seen my pate (grotesquely bald) the object of some laughter
I am no statesman—not now nor hereafter;
I have seen the needle of my ratings wiggle,
And I have seen the Secret Service roll their eyes, and giggle,
            And in short, I was betrayed.

      And would it have been worth it, do you think,
After Moscow, the prostitutes, the pee,
The commentariat, who’ve been routinely mean to me,
Would I have gone too far
Once I’d given DOJ to William Barr
And made it just another arm of Trump, Inc.,
To kick the Constitution into flinders,
To say: “I’m the Donald, you’re the Apprentice,
I’m here to tell you that you’re fired, you’re fired”—
Yet, Stormy paused before she gave me head,
      And said: “That is not what I want at all.
            That’s not it, Sir, at all.”

      And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the hearings and the subpoenas and the sprinkled sheets,
After the scandals, after the phone calls, after the House decides to vote me out—
What the hell is that about?—
It is impossible to know just what I knew!
But as if a TV camera spewed some hacks to blather on the tube:
Would it have been worth while
If one, waking up at three and tossing off a tweet,
And turning toward the TV, should say:
“Lock up Crooked Hillary,
      Lock her up for good and all!”

      Yes! I’m a stable genius, clear for all to see;
Am a compliant dunce, one that will do
To pack the courts, pass a tax bill or two
And serve the rich; no doubt, I’m always down,
Presidential, glad to be on board,
Impulsive, reckless, occasionally profane;
Abused, insulted, frequently ignored;
At times, indeed, almost insane—
Almost, at times, the Clown.

I’m senile…infantile…
I shall serve my sentence stably in denial.

Shall I leave my hair behind? Do I dare to join a gang?
I shall wear a bright orange jumpsuit, and walk along the yard.
I have heard the inmates singing to the guards.
I do not think that Pence will pardon me.

I have seen the prosecutors on the case
Looking for backups on the White House LAN:
It won’t be good when all this hits the fan.

We have frolicked on a mattress soaked with pee
In opulent hotel rooms trimmed in gold—
Until we face indictment, and we fold. 

Celebrating the Prince of Piece

Nutcase Nevada Assemblywoman Michele Fiore ([R] Glock County) has been getting some attention for the Christmas card reproduced above, in which she and her extended family are pictured cradling enough weaponry to take out an entire middle school. After my third cup of coffee this morning I was moved to concoct the following doggerel, which I hope distantly captures the holiday spirit as experienced by a certain DSM-IV demographic. Without further ado, then, here's

The Night Be-Fiore Christmas

It was right before Christmas. All through the abode
The family assembled to lock and to load.
Our pieces were ready, we chambered a round,
Preparing if need be to all stand our ground.
The kiddies were tricked out in holiday best
With matching red t-shirts and cool Kevlar vests.
The old lady wore camo, while I dressed in black:
And everyone knew that their kin had their backs.
Then out on the street there arose such a ruckus
That I went to the window to see what the fuck was
Going down in the hood. I lit up a flare,
Tossed it out on the lawn. What did I see there?
The floodlights had already lit up the premises
(the better to draw a good bead on one’s nemesis!);
Some jerk in a Tesla was parked at the curb.
I shouted “Push off!” (well, I used a rude verb).
Upon closer inspection I turned downright morose:
“Holy shite!” I exclaimed, “It’s that monster George Soros!”
This Hungarian ogre, he gestured and sneered
And most of our firepower just…disappeared!
“Gone, Browning! Beretta! Bushmaster and Ruger!
Out, handgun and long gun, revolver and Luger!
Season’s greetings! I’ve come here on government business
As part of our ongoing jihad on Christmas.
But I leave you your flintlocks. This arsenal fits a
Well-rounded and well-regulated militia.”
We stared in dismay at that pitiful remnant:
All that was left of the Second Amendment!
The currency trader continued to mock while,
Bewildered, we looked all around for our stockpile.
My youngest girl told him “You must be unhinged—
Our gun-toting rights never shall be infringed!”
He chuckled, and told her with stinging derision,
“Kid, you are deluded, but I have a vision
Of the liberal craze overtaking the nation:
Sweeping new and improved anti-gun legislation!”
But as he continued to taunt, in that minute her
Eyes flickered toward the outer perimeter.
The front door burst open. Who was it stood there?
Holy Charleton Heston! ’Twas Wayne LaPierre!
He said, brandishing a Kalashnikov jobbie,
“I speak on behalf of the armaments lobby!
Who cares if you claim that our rhetoric’s raucous
When we own the Congressional GOP caucus?”
In one hand he hoisted a Bible aloft.
“Your leftie conception of Jesus? Too soft.
My Redeemer’s well-armed, and His gospel’s Fox-Newsy.
He didn’t come here to bring peace, but an Uzi!
The Lord’s on our side, and our doctrine is rigid:
A gun crazy’s rights shall not be abridged.”
Slack-jawed, looking right at this patriot’s Glock
The hedge fund guy almost went into deep shock.
And cringing, he whimpered “You can’t have that mortar.
Private use is outlawed by executive order!”
Quoth Wayne, “That’s enough of your commie sedition.
You’ve lost! Give it up! Assume the position!”
And as Soros fell back in disgrace and defeat,
LaPierre went on Twitter and posted a tweet:
“The NRA’s aims ain’t so easily thwarted.
Go jump in the Danube! Your agenda’s aborted!”

Once more with beehives

I reprint “Frances Among the Beehives: A Birthday Ode, 1980” to mark the birthday of my dearest friend. She lived, in those days, in Utah, a “black hat” among the “saints”:

Frances Fisher, drinking gin

and tonic as the Saints march in,

Waverly Fisher, whom Random knew when

Has turned twenty-nine. Rand starts over again,

Smites his forehead, pours a cup

Of Folgers hi-test, sobers up

Within another cup or two, or

(Muse invoked) another few,

Conveys from land of sin and surf

His greetings to Moroni’s turf,

Hopes Provo is pleasant, knows Mormons are not

All that bad save en masse

(but it’s en masse you’ve got—

Utah being the homeland of Wog and of Polly,

Salt Lake, Brigham Young and the Osmonds, by golly!).

This doggerel is pretty poor

Imitation Clement Moore

Which is, however, no excuse

Not to play it fast and loose

On Frances Fisher’s natal day.

Sin! Debauch! And by the way

Do not let Sainthood take its toll

On Franny’s hedonistic soul.

In Rome we do as Romans do

But are, in Zion, careful to

Stay decadent. Remain alert!

Party, drink, and don’t convert.

Cheek by jowl with Latter-Dates

Black hats discreetly congregate,

and slipping from the pious’ sight

Go Gentile into that good night.

It could be verse

Sorting through my old papers I came across the above bit of doggerel. In the 1970s, in another life, Richard McCloud and I, and our then-wives, socialized rather frequently. Alas, I haven't seen any of the other three this century. McCloud was a sailor by profession and by avocation, and in 1979 purchased Tyche (named for the minor Greek deity of luck), on whom the four of us and sundry others passed many a splendid afternoon on San Francisco Bay. On the occasion of that purchase I penned the above lines, mimicking in my typographical treatment (to the extent this was possible given the technological resources of the day, which is to say, not much) the conventions of those Georgian poets who, when they made a classical allusion, wanted to make damn sure that their audience didn't imagine that they, the poets, were products of, you know, the XVIII Century equivalent of a red-brick university.

This comes from a brief period during which the Muse of Light Verse settled on my shoulder. I remain rather proud of it.