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Saturday, June 1, 2013

Pâté with Chanterelles

A caterpillar singing Dylan,
   to his lovely little daughter,
Met a Butterfly that was chillin',
   in a pool of Muddy Water.

A caterpillar took his rest, in a chilling mystery thriller,
   Met a sudden bookish death, by a serial butterfly killer.

A caterpillar sadly sitting,
   through a chilling mystery thriller,
Had her body badly bitten,
   by a serial butterfly killer.

When a caterpillar stewed, "I'll never get fine clothes."
   A butterfly bought him a suit, "For my caterpillar bro!"

A Butterfly played a clever Metaphor,
   His poetry got engraved, on a Caterpillar's door.

A tiny Butterfly sang a killer metaphor,
   The poetry he sang, hung on a Caterpillar's door.

A Caterpillar climbed, to a Butterfly's front door,
   So poetry grows sublime, on the shores of Metaphor.

Scanty and bare, what don't we like?
   Bra and panties, take a hike.

I heard a call, and wrote this ditty,
   Knowing well that graffiti's seedy.
Made it rhyme, and got it punning,
   arranged in time, and made it funny.

Au Frontenac à Montréal
I bought pâté with chanterelles.
I sought my queen in the rez-de-chaussée,
Après j'ai pris, un petit café.

Raymond Catalan wouldn't fit,
   Not in our car, nor the back of it!

I knew a poet, whom little was lost-on,
   He didn't know it but his name was Drew Boston.

The mortgage mess is a full-scale eruption,
Sordid bets, with bales of corruption.

Professor Newt once took a sack,
. . .  of government loot, from Freddie Mac.

These bankers whine, but act so noble,
     like John Corzine of MF Global.
He's got some gold in his knapsack,
     since he sold his stock of Goldman Sachs.

Republican candidates have Alzheimer's bad.
Can't remember dates, or who is whose Dad.

No sane reason to speculate,
 . . . that ancient treason was Hecate bait.
A Turkish dish writ on Grecian lace,
 . . . sent a kiss from Samothrace.

Milky silk and silken skin,
Beneath her kilt, I looked right in!

Permission requested to write some poems,
that won't be found in a reputable tome.
They might be struck down, but once on the town,
their mission's to romp as they roam.

I beseech you, are these leechees?
Or Leeches with Beach leaves?
Eyeballs for my highball?

Irene brought doom, duress and bleeding,
Her cost entombs success that's fleeting.

Money prowls through indebted streets,
Something growls, but nothing to eat.

Greedy feeding at the trough,
weeping wives and lovers lost,
Brooks and Murdoch not enough,
to pay busted lies, and karma tossed.

The brute refuted a working gal's rage,
But information she looted put DSK in a cage.

What feat or race of mortal men,
Could face or beat an Andromedan?

What fruits of bankruptcy corrupted the feast;
The boots of Italy, that stepped on Greece!

Get lost Silvio! Call and ring him!
Tell the truth he has no lingham.
Imperial love at last has soured,
On Berlusconi, master coward.

Papandreou withstood populous rage.
Hard to do, it takes courage.
But Berlusconi, across the sea,
Won't resign, until forced to flee.

Rupert M is on his knees,
   before Her Majesty the Queen,
The travesty now is what he's blown,
   and all the TV she's seeing!

Don't buy those bonds don't be such saps!
No putting off a financial collapse.

Who caused it all? I'm not talking,
But it isn't the fault of the subprime Balkans.

Papandreou the Fearless lives to fight,
An honest PM from a Greece in plight.

Berlusconi scorned the fuss,
Dines alone on Italian puss.

Berlusconi won't take aid,
From the one and only IMF maid.
If she were younger he might have asked,
For bunga-bunga, those times are past.

Greek bonds are weak,
German banks are wormy,
Thank the French, the stench is germy,
Italian paper's coming down,
A fire-sale in your home town.

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