Mr. Trump was the auditor’s  bane.
He reported all sunshine as rain.
   His web site was crazy,
   All data were hazy.
They called it his ledger domain!

The ******* the bike was a mess--
She was nursing her baby, no less.
   The cop gave a citation,
   'Twas a moving violation
To the baby, for riding a breast!

My dog is such a cat, you know.
Plays laser tag; meows for show!
   She’s arf and arf it seems.
She plays with tangled skeins of yearns,
For hours and hours, and then she turns
   To wander through my dreams.

I know they say that pets become
Their owners’ déjà vu’s--in sum,
   Immeasurably similar.
So which is which,
Did my left brain twitch?
   Is the dog her man’s exhibitor?

And scientists will disagree
About the causal origins.
   So be it.
Ask **** and Jane.
Ask Spot, and then
   Just simply a-b see it!

Meowff!!

The pluperfect maid was aghast!
“What? No gift for your hostess, she asked?”
   It got tense when he said
   For a woman instead
Of a present, I give her a past!

A highly respected economist
Was in search of recessions’ real Genesis.
      He said, “Grow the economy
      Right through Deuteronomy,
But Numbers is truly our Nemesis!”

I’m called Madam Budget Cut, hard-edged Ms. Bludgeon ****,
Slashing each piece of the pie.
But still I the budget gut, both guns and butter cut,
Balance the budget or die!

I’ve a tax for tobacco, and (pols think I’m whacko),
I’m slashing their projects with knives.
No ribbons for cutting, no grants for abutting
Old properties owned by their wives.

I’ve cross-the-board fixes, I’ve “no ways” and “nixes”,
I’ve silly assumptions and worse.
I consolidate functions, ignore court injunctions
Protecting the power of the purse.

I’ve early-out options, I propose late adoptions
Of programs designed by the Feds.
I close institutions, slow down restitutions,
And limit the number of beds.

I fire those who sign up
The thousands who line up
For Medicaid, welfare and such.
I’ve April surprises, with merit pay prizes
For staff who don’t argue too much.

So go with my uppercut,
Knock out the sludge, and gut,
Budgets should never be shy.
So we’ll cut, snip and suture,
Then look toward the future,
And pray that the patient won’t die!

As a botanist she had no peer
In cajoling a plant to appear.
   She would talk to them…sing
   About any old thing.
And she’d fertilize often with cheer!

She lived out her life in an attic;
Horticultural chances were static.
   But her care was so giving,
   She earned plants a living
With a glow based on colors chromatic!

She developed a system to graft her
Young shoots twixt a wall and a rafter.
  There was not quite the room
   To make daffodils bloom,
So she sprinkled them often with laughter!

As the plants grew they got a concoction
That would let them move on, as an option.
   And thus one new morn
   Plant Parenthood was born.
They would offer themselves for adoption!

Though ado/apted, they remembered her dearly,
And the reunion they held semi-yearly
   Was named after her
   Though her prodigy were
Often forced into blossoming early

Not a problem.
They were used to miracles!

The pair danced the polka a lot,
When the woman steamed off--very hot!
   She was dressed, I confess,
   In a polka dot dress,
And protested when he poke a dot!

They were born two months apart.
     Their houses shared a common wall.
               Abutting romance.

You might say.

Naked, at age one, they shared a kiddie pool.
     Grandparents still have the picture (giggle).
     Joined at the hip.

So to speak.

Just the houses. Lives moved on, separately.
     Some don’t; she died a teenager.

Lives diverge.
       Lives end
Wish him the best, truly.
        His life should be as beautiful as he is.

May he remember the sum
          Of the good times.
                 Where he has been.
                 And what he has accomplished.

Let him remember that the best is yet to come.
   But let him not forget her.

To dream the possible dream,
To convince the implacable foe,
To serve in the public arena,
To defend every man’s right to know.

To choose, when the choices are tough,
To toil, through the catcalls and jeers,
To proceed, when proceeding is called for,
To succeed through the blood and the tears.

We work to hold trust; we stick to the facts,
Recommendations for spending; recommendations for tax.
To fight when we must; but much better to show
Through analysis based on the facts how decisions might go.

And we know if we only adhere
To objectives of worth,
That reforms, small and large as they come,
Can be nursed to their birth.

And the world will be better for this—
That we strove, both as peons and czars—
And moved with deliberate courage
To reach the reachable stars.

My life began without a grin.
   I learned it.
My baby mouth demanding food,
   Upturned it.

At one end.

A grin—yes, lopsided.

My day now begins with shaving;
   Mirror stark.
I turn an end up still,
   Cuts through the dark.

My grin is my second best friend.

Our souls demand soul food,
   A grin’s a start.
The upturned end is cued
   Right to my heart.

So I finally ran out of rhymes (sad thought).
When I put this with that there were times
   When I thought rhymes were endless,
   But now sounds are friendless.
My limericks now must be mimes!

So I’m mouthing the words; do you hear ‘em?
Be quick! They’re right now disappearin’!
   Evanescent their tone
   With a volume unknown.
Though they fit me so well I  can wear 'em.

But wait! There are rhymes near the bottom.
I can reach ‘em. I’ll stretch out. Yes! I’ve got em!
  Well,  I’ll use them next time,
   There’s no place here for rhyme.
Still, blessed be he who begot em.

Some say the world will end with fire,
Some say with banks.
From what I’ve tasted of finances
I choose financial fer-de-lances.

But talking to the banking gurus,
Who say we’ll have to implode twice,
I’d say that that of destruction euros
Are very nice, and would suffice.

No-Man is an island.
     Desolate.
              Forlorn.
    She had visited often.

No-Man is an island.
     Time waited for her there.
                  Hour after hour.
      She waited too, walked the beach,
           Recollecting shells of old relationships.
                   To her ear she could hear
                          The unforgiving ocean.

No-Man is an island.
        The sea rises; the island is not safe.

No-Man can be a refuge.
         Leave the island.

The girl could dance on the keys
While shedding her garments with ease.
   She'd then toss a few jokes
   To the admiring blokes.
They called her the Comic Strip tease!

A FLea and a FLy in a FLute,
Built a FLat where they FLit, resolute.
  They had FLouted a FLaw
  In a FLagrancy law,
But a breath of FLesh air made it moot!

He started each day with a joke,
Often simple, but if useful baroque.
     The listeners repeated them,
     The circle completed them
Til a sense of good fellowship woke.

People laughed till their sides started splitting.
And—with their underwear no longer fitting,
     Their punch lines were showing
     With the north winds still blowing
There were strains of the humor transmitting!

The puns that he used were outrageous.
He was forced to reduce them by stages.
     The CDC said
     Epidemics they spread,
The guffaws were extremely contagious!

But the humor was also a cure
For the pains that they'd had to endure.
     No elixirs were shaken,
     Not a bitter pill taken,
And the feelings of wellness were pure.

So he settled for writing refrains,
With a bit of sly humor ingrained.
     If you don’t see the slyness--
     Per Thomas Aquinas--
If you love it no need to explain!

There once was a coed from Chester
Who was born with removeable *******. Her
   Twins got confused
   About which ones to use,
So they studied on an extra semester!

There was a young lass from Bermuda
Who maintained that no man could delude her.
   But she had these two friends who
   Had a superb pas de deux
And she persuaded them both to include her!

There was a young man from Blackheath sir,
Who carried his tool in a sheath, sir,
    With a practiced quick draw
    He would see, he would saw,
But he always wound up underneath her!

To the women who lived in the barrio,
The actor seemed quite the lothario.
   But his novia knew
   ‘Twas a mythical queue,
She had written her lover’s scenario!

The Founders declared it was just this,
And they did it with clearly a purpose--
   A judge is an umpire
  The Supreme Court should look higher.
And so, each of them is called Justice.

They made love—not too slow, not too fast,
With a tenderness rarely surpassed.
   And after they finished,
   With nothing diminished,
“Nice guys finish,” she breathed. “Nice guys last!”

With the cosmic balance awry,
It was clear that one side was too high.
   Could justice be served
   If one ending was curved?
And then Libra fell out of the sky!

So the scale of disaster was vast.
And the jury sat staggered, aghast!
   And how do you know
   To go fast; to go slow,
How to weigh what is measured, at last.

And so balance was never achieved,
And the public was clearly aggrieved.
   In the scale of eternity
   We’d arrived at modernity
And the verdict could not be believed.

(To the Tune of Humoresque, with apologies to Mssrs Dvorak and Douglas)

We want to make it very plain that residents should please abstain
From gatherings in groups (we’re watching you!!),

We discourage assignations, please commune in isolation,
Whatever you have done before DON’T DO!!

If you need a sweet flirtation, please recall our limitation,
Separation being the thing we hope you do.

If you start exchanging fluid, danger there is undisputed,
Please to keep the group size down to two.

Copywrong Vic Miller. All wrongs preserved.

Why couldn’t the snake reproduce--initially?
   Complicated.
First, her egg tried to cross the road.
   “Restless egg syndrome” was the medical diagnosis.
It rolled halfway across,
   Colliding with a politician
Looking for the median voter.
    Fruitless.

The egg was severely damaged, but they got it
    To the Shell service station.
No one cracked a yolk.
At the end though, multiplication was impossible.
    The snake was seen to be an adder.
A reptile dysfunction, they said.

But then LL Bean delivered their log table…

Copywrong Vic Miller 2018. All wrongs preserved.

He lived at the top of Trump Tower,
And reveled at the extent of his power.
   To demonstrate strength
   He extended the length
Of government's funding one hour!

Dough is what we need to earn.
Raises never seem enough.
Mediocre is our pay,
For we just don't make enough.
So I guess we'll have to stray.
Lots of Places we could go!
Tears we'll shed, we'd rather stay..
Which will lead us back to dough.

So say we need more dough, dough, dough!

There once was a mohel from Ann Arbor,
Who received some advice from a barber.
   He said, “please always snip
   With a scissor’s far tip.
With circumcision, there is no safe harbor!”

But the mohel was determined to show
How creative the process could go.
   So he carved his initial
   Where it wasn’t official--
Some above, bit between, some below.

As the boy grew, he decided to maximize
The value of what he’d discovered between his thighs.
   He was told it was smart
   To hold onto his art,
But on letting go he won the prize!

There once was a lad named Ted Cruz.
(A name he’d decided to use).
   He’d rejected Latino-ness
   In conducting his business.
An identity for which he had no use.

In the end, though, he remembered his roots.
So off to Cancun he did scoot.
   And the warm bienvenido
   Made him sure he’d succeed. Oh…
He’d forgotten his senatorial pursuit!

So he jumped on another jet plane
Leaving behind the pate and champaign.
   But ‘twas another anomaly
   He’d forgotten his family.
A perhaps un-erasable stain!

But his constituents would know that he cared
Even though he’d left his state unprepared.
   His family was another slog.
   Oh! He’d get them a little dog.
And with that his circle was finally squared!