Naziism gained it's foothold in Germany
when the Reichstag was burned down:
this gave them the pretext needed
to suspend the rights of the Citizenry indefinitely
to ensure "security".

Sound familiar?

It should be frightening how similar it in fact is to modern events:

This rhymes with modern American legislation:
CISPA, the PATRIOT acts, the NDAA, etc.

Governments have always used such events
to catalyze and capitalize their own motives:

Tread lightly.
We enter a new age of Oppression with each passing administration;
we are not immune because we are hubristic
if anything, we are more vulnerable for it.

Sieg Heil,
für Gott ist mit uns.
Wir können nicht verloren
denn Gott ist mit uns.
Sieg Heil,
Amerika über alles.
Sieg Heil,
Das viertes ***** wird herum.
Sieg Heil.
Sieg Heil.

I pledge my absolute blind-faith and non-wavering allegiance
to the Flag and the totalitarian, oligarchic Viertes ***** (fourth Kingdom) for which it stands,
one nation wholly divided in any and all ways conceivable,
hell bent on Global Military-Socioeconomic Conquest in the name of the same God as our enemies
with liberty and justice for those who can afford it (Read: the excruciatingly wealthy).

Brothers,
let us stand together.
Sisters,
you can stay sitting.

Let us stand
united
by our inability
to stay out in the sun
too long.

In fact,
would someone mind
erecting a gazebo
for us to stand united
underneath?

Thank you.

Brothers,
having proven
that we cannot demonstrate
our superiority
through sport,
rhetoric,
mathematics,
music,
drama,
art,
science,
business acumen
or military might

Let us instead
prove it beyond all doubt
by gathering in groups
and chanting slogans.

Flags are good, too.
Dagnab it,
just look at the way
we can wave those flags.

If that
doesn't qualify us
as the Master Race,
then I don't know what will.

And thus anointed,
let us expunge the world
of miscegenation.
Let us cleanse public radio
of anything other
than Bavarian folk music.
Let us revel
in boiled beef
and wheat-based foods.
Let us return
the mineral wealth of the world
to the tarnished, coloured nations
from whence it came.

Let us reject
foreign mythologies
apart from that one
about Jesus
obviously.

Let us all return
to the country, town,
street
and house
of our birth.

History is with us, brothers.
If there's one thing
it teaches us
it's that nothing should ever change
and empires
never fall.

Sieg heil!

Doggerel

The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks:


There was a young lady named Bright
Who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day,
In a relative way,
And came back the previous night.
―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller


I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder:

***-Tronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
Thus, all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!



These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun:

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.

I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good."



What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?



A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus, for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!



***** Nilly
by Michael R. Burch

for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped―
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?



Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!

Originally published by Light



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.



The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
​


Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



No Star
by Michael R. Burch

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.



tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch



Golden Years?
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old.
My legs are cold.
My book’s unsold and my wife’s a scold.
Now the only gold’s
in my teeth.
I fold.



Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch

“****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.

Originally published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7

NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! And I believe such laws should extend to Creators who claim to be loving, wise, merciful, just, etc., while forcing innocent mice to provide owls with late-night snacks. ― Michael R. Burch



Animal Limericks

Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."



Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing―
just think of the tunes you can carry!"



Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.



The Pelican't
by Michael R. Burch

Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!



Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse

The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch

Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.

Originally published by Grand Little Things



Other Animal Poems

Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.



honeybee
by Michael R. Burch

love was a little treble thing―
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting



Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch

Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.



Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch

A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”

I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.

Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.



Baked Alaskan

There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"―
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Going Rogue in Rouge

It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Pls refudiate

“Refudiate” this,
miffed, misunderstood Ms!―
Shakespeare, you’re not
(more like Yoda, but hot).
Your grammar’s atrocious;
Great Poets would know this.

You lack any plan
save to flatten Iran
like some cute Mini-Me
cloned from G. W. B.

Admit it, Ms. Palin!
Stop your winkin’ and wailin’―
only “heroes” like Nero
fiddle sparks at Ground Zero.

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved

I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012.



Nonsense Verse

There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true.
―Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch



There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
― Michael R. Burch



Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy―
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!
―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch



The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch



Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
says all mass increases with speed.
My *** grows when I sit it.
Albert Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
― Michael R. Burch


　
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mothers’ eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
― Michael R. Burch



Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!
― Michael R. Burch



A proper young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a "****!" disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.
― Michael R. Burch
　


There once was a troglodyte, Mary,
whose poots were impressively airy.
To her children’s deep shame,
their foul condo became
the first cave to employ a canary.
― Michael R. Burch



There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!
― Michael R. Burch



The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.



Ding **** ...
by Michael R. Burch

for Fliss

An impertinent bit of sunlight
defeated a goddess, NIGHT.
Hooray!, cried the clover,
Her reign is over!
But she certainly gave us a fright!



Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch

Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.



The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch

A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”



Hell-Bound Hounds
by Michael R. Burch

We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!
I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner!

They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful!
They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful!

And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!
They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg!

Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,
our helpless hamster! None will go to college

or work to pay their room and board, or vets!
When the Devil says, “*** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”

And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt
the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .

which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.
But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”


Menu Venue
by Michael R. Burch

At the passing of the shark
the dolphins cried Hark!;

cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee
there will be a serener sea
to its utmost periphery!;

the dogfish barked,
so joyously!;

pink porpoises piped Whee!
excitedly,
delightedly.

But ...

Will there be as much glee
when there’s no you and me?


Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch

Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!


Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch

after Keats

Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...

Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...

It’s time to make hay!

I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.


How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by Michael R. Burch

My face is getting craggier.
My pants are getting saggier.
My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.
My wife is getting naggier.
I’m getting old!

My memory’s plumb awful.
My eyesight is unlawful.
I eschew a tofu waffle.
My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.
I’m getting old!

My temperature is colder.
My molars need more solder.
Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder.
My wife seized up. Unfold her!
I’m getting old!



A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet”
by Michael R. Burch

Wont to croon
by the light of the moon
on a rickety ladder,
mad as a hatter,
Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon,
broke his leg,
had to beg,
repented of falling in love too soon.

A nurse, averse
to his seductive verse,
aware of his madness
and familial badness,
searched for the stiletto in her purse.

Meanwhile, Juliet
began to fret
that the roguish poet
(wouldn’t you know it?)
had pledged his “love” because of a bet!

A gang of young thugs
and loutish lugs
had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs.
They were doomed to fail,
ended up in jail,
became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!”

No tickets were sold,
no tickets were bought,
because, in the end, it all came to naught.

Exeunt stage left.



Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



No Star
by Michael R. Burch

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.


tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch



Doggerel about Doggerel

The Board
by Michael R. Burch

Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood―
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.

The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.



Longer Doggerel

When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch

When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.

As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:

what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.

“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.

Whips! Chains! *******!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.

Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.



Happily Never After
by Michael R. Burch

Happily never after, we lived unmerrily
(write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See
as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody.

We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee
and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse,
a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep,
and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep.

We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old,
peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:―
like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of ***.
We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy.

Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see.
We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody
had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit,

with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit,
seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.”

We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See.
We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce,
Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once
We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl
of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world,
We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See
and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily
hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee.



Doggerel about Dogs

Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch

Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.

I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.



Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!

He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!



Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch

I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
―Alexander Pope

We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)

They’ll never catch Us napping―
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.

But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.

The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew

who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.

But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter

and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.



Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch

When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.

First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”

Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.

Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).



Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy ...
But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I’m sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more *****-y!



On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus?

I need an artist or cartoonist to create an image of a male rhino lifting his prospective mate into the air during an abortive kiss. Any takers?



On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?



On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch

A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!



The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch

A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the scorn
gals showed for his horn,
then lost it to poachers, sedated.



Less Heroic Couplets: Word to the Unwise
by Michael R. Burch

I wanted to be good as gold,
but being good, as I’ve been told,
requires something, discipline,
I simply have no interest in!



Villanelle of an Opportunist
by Michael R. Burch

I’m not looking for someone to save.
A gal has to do what a gal has to do:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

How many highways to hell must I pave
with intentions imagined, not true?
I’m not looking for someone to save.

Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave,
but a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave
because he has led me to you!
I’m not looking for someone to save.

In the land of the free and the home of the brave,
a gal has to do what a gal has to do.
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.

Every day without meds becomes a close shave
and the razor keeps tempting me too.
I’m not looking for someone to save:
I’m looking for a man with one foot in the grave.



Less Heroic Couplets: Shell Game
by Michael R. Burch

I saw a turtle squirtle!
Before you ask, “How fertile?”
The squirt came from its mouth.
Why do your thoughts fly south?



Helen Keller
saw more than the stellar-
visioned
and the televisioned.
—Michael R. Burch



Antsy kids of the world, unite!
You don't like facts, so fight!
Call them all “haters,”
those cool, calm debaters,
then your mommies can tuck you in tight.
—Michael R. Burch



Ireland’s Ire has Landed

The luck of the Irish has failed:
Trump’s landed and cannot be jailed!
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
despondent and bombs have been mailed.

Donald Trump has alarmed Country Clare:
the Irish are crying, “Beware!
He won’t pay his tax,
his manners are lax,
and what the hell’s up with his hair?”

The Donald has landed in Doonbeg
(Ireland). Why? For a noon beg:
he’s running real low
on cash, so you know
he’ll fit like a freakin’ square peg.

The luck of the Irish has faltered.
Trump’s there and he cannot be haltered.
From Killarney to Derry
the natives are very
insistent his visa be altered.



Poets laud Justice’s
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



Zip It
by Michael R. Burch

Trump pulled a stunt,
wore his pants back-to-front,
and now he’s the **** of bald jokes:
“Is he coming, or going?”
“Eeek! His diaper is showing!”
But it’s all much ado, says Snopes.



Limerick-Ode to a Much-Eaten ***
by Michael R. Burch

There wonst wus a president, Trump,
whose greatest *** (et) wus his ****.
It was padded ’n’ shiny,
that great orange hiney,
but to drain it we’d need a sump pump!



On the Horns of a Dilemma (I)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn deforms her esophagus?

On the Horns of a Dilemma (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Love has become preposterous
for the over-endowed rhinoceros:
when he meets the right miss
how the hell can he kiss
when his horn is so ***** it lofts her thus?

On the Horns of a Dilemma (III)
by Michael R. Burch

A wino rhino said, “I know!
I have a horn I cannot blow!
And so,
ergo,
I’ll watch the lovely spigot flow!

The Horns of a Dilemma Solved, if not Solvent
by Michael R. Burch

A wine-addled rhino debated
the prospect of living unmated
due to the cruel scorn
gals showed for his horn,
but then lost it to poachers, sedated.



A Possible Explanation for the Madness of March Hares
by Michael R. Burch

March hares,
beware!
Spring’s a tease, a flirt!

This is yet another late freeze alert.
Better comfort your babies;
the weather has rabies.



Voice of (T)reason
by Michael R. Burch

Love is the highest, the greatest, the grandest!
Love has us all and our lovers in thrall!

Love, but don’t fall.

Love is the coolest, the truest, the Yule-est!
Love is sage Andrew’s Marvell-ous ball!

Love, but don’t fall.

Love is the sweetest, the deepest, the fleetest!
Yes, that’s the problem – a pall over all.

Love, but don’t fall.



Final Ballad of the Unhappy Camper
by Michael R. Burch

I’m low on ****,
lost my fizz,
out of biz.

Flabby and *****,
morose and mourny,
gals’re scorny.

Friggin’ Low T Hell!
Unable to swell!
"More sleep"? Do tell!



Less Heroic Couplets: Weird Beard
by Michael R. Burch

for and after Richard Thomas Moore

C’mon, admit—love’s truly weird:
why does a ****** need a beard?

Should making love produce foul poxes?
What can we make of such paradoxes?

And having made love, what the hell's the point
of ending up with a sore, limp joint?

Who invented love, which we all pursue
like rats in a maze after sniffing glue?



This is my randy version of a classic limerick originally published by Arthur Henry Reginald Buller in Punch on Dec. 19, 1923.

An incestuous physicist, Bright,
made love at speeds faster than light.
She had *** one day
in her relative way,
then came on the previous night!

There was a young **** star of Ghent
whose get-up just got up and went.
Too sleepy for ***,
her fans became ex-
subscribers, and no checks were sent.
—Michael R. Burch

Fair Elle was an eely lover
who squiggled beneath the covers ...
She was hard to pin down!
When I did it, she’d frown,
then wouldn’t do none of my druthers!

There once was a camel who loved to ****.
Please get your crude minds out of their slump!
He loved to give rides on his huge, lordly lump!
—Michael R. Burch

I wanted to live like a sheik, in a harem.
But I live like a monk without gals ’cause I scare ’em.
—Michael R. Burch



Mouldy Oldie, or, Septuagenarian Ode to Cheese Mould
by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old
and battling mould —
it’s growing on my cheese!

My phone’s on hold
to report the mould —
my life is not a breeze!

I pray and pray,
"Send help my way —
good Lord, I’m on my knees!"

But truth be told,
it’s oversold —
that’s it, I’m done with cheese!



Wonderworks
by Michael R. Burch

History’s
mysteries
abound
& astound,
found
(profound)
the whole earth ’round,
even if mostly
underground.

I wrote the poem above after discovering an article about the aptly-named Wonderwerk Cave in an ancient (March 2016) falling-apart issue of Discover that I rescued from my car. The cave in question lies in South Africa’s Northern Cape province, around 300 miles southwest of the “Cradle of Civilization.” Artifacts discovered in the Wonderwerk Cave appear to be even more ancient than the Cradle’s. According to the article, “The density of stone artifacts in the region is staggering.” The use of fire may now date back as far as 1.8 million years.



The Procrastinator’s Creed
by Michael R. Burch

It’s always, “Tomorrow, I’ll do it.”
Work? I eschew it.
I never collect money I’ve loaned
and the rest of this poem’s been postponed.



WHEN MAN IS GONE
by Michael R. Burch

When man is gone
won’t the sun still rise?

Will anyone care
that he isn’t there?

Will the porpoises
lack purpose,

the marigolds
fold?

Will the doves and the deer
weep bitter tears?

Or will life continue,
glad to be off his menu?



That Mella Fella
by Michael R. Burch

for John Mella, former editor of LIGHT

There once was a fella
named Mella,
who, if you weren’t funny,
would tell ya.

But he was cool, clever, nice,
gave some splendid advice,
and if you were good,
he would sell ya.



One for the Thumb!
by Michael R. Burch

Counting rings, the counters come,
marching to the same sad drum:

“Your GOAT has two, but ours has four!”

“Our GOAT has six, and six is more!”

“One for the thumb! Our GOAT’s the best!”

But Robert Horry’s not impressed.

Jim Loscutoff is trying on
the mantle of the GOAT, anon.

Frank Ramsey laughs himself to tears:
since he won seven in just nine years.

Tom Heinsohn, K.C. Jones, Satch Sanders
and Hondo all have eight, ring ganders.

Sam Jones has rings to fill both hands
(that’s ten for all math-challenged fans),
won in twelve years, as truth demands.

Meanwhile, the only GOAT we know,
Bill Russell, has one ... for the toe!



Mating Calls, or, Purdy Please!
by Michael R. Burch

1.
Nine-thirty? Feeling flirty (and, indeed, a trifle *****),
I decided to ring prudish Eleanor Purdy ...
When I rang her to bang her,
it seems my words stang her!
She hung up the phone, so I banged off, alone.

2
Still dreaming to hold something skirty,
I once again rang our reclusive Miss Purdy.
She sounded unhappy,
called me “daffy” and “sappy,”
and that was before the gal heard me!

3.
It was early A.M., ’bout two-thirty,
when I enquired again with the regal Miss Purdy.
With a voice full of hate,
she thundered, “It’s LATE!”
Was I, perhaps, over-wordy?

4.
At 3:42, I was feeling blue,
and so I dialed up Miss You-Know-Who,
thinking to bed her
and quite possibly wed her,
but she summoned the cops; now my bail is due!

5.
It was probably close to four-thirty
the last time I called the miserly Purdy.
Although I’m her boarder,
the restraining order
freezes all assets of that virginity hoarder!

6.
It was nearly twelve-thirty
when, in need of something skirty,
I rang up (to bang up) the reclusive Miss Purty ...
She hung up the phone
so I banged off, alone.



Hot Cross Buns
by Michael R. Burch

Lexi, Lexi, Lexi,
so lovely and perplexy,
please meet me for a meal
spicy and Tex-Mexy.

Done with hot fried fritters,
bend over, show your knickers;
then, as your *** cheeks redden,
ignore the public snickers.



New Year’s Dissolution
by Michael R. Burch

The year draws to a close ...
Who knows
where the hell the time goes?

I’m up to my nose
in ill-fitting clothes!

They canceled my shows!
My corns grow in rows!

And yet I’ll survive ...
Perhaps ... I suppose ...

So let’s ring the New Year in
with tonic and gin
and greet the foolish Babe
with an even-more-foolish grin!



Her Whirlwind Life
by Michael R. Burch

for Tallulah Bankhead

“Never slow down
or someone’ll catch up.
Virgins are boring,
give me a ****.”

“Male or female,
it really don’t matter.
Life is too short
to live it in a halter.”

Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi

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Mein Gott! Can't you see,
in the Teutonic light,
What we proudly Sieg Heil
with the torches all gleaming?
The ******* beckons,
through the perilous fight,
Great Deutschland awakens,
not sleeping or dreaming!

On the huge TV screens,
the footballers are seen,
Foul proof through the night
Brave Germany's dream.

O please make that Hakenkreuz banner come first!
We're the land of Sauerkraut, brave home of the Wurst.

Doggerel

The limerick is one of the most common and most popular forms of doggerel. This is one of my favorite limericks:


There was a young lady named Bright
Who traveled much faster than light.
She set out one day,
In a relative way,
And came back the previous night.
―Arthur Henry Reginald Buller


I find it interesting that one of the best revelations of the weirdness and zaniness of relativity can be found in a limerick! The limerick above inspired me to pen a rejoinder:

***-Tronomical
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein, the frizzy-haired,
proved E equals MC squared.
Thus, all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!



Woeful Waffles
by Michael R. Burch

for and after Richard Thomas Moore

I think it’s woeful
and should be unlawful
to eat those awful
tofu waffles!



These are "subversive" poems of mine, pardon the pun:

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.

I came up with this epigram after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven, and wondering how anyone could call the biblical God "good."



What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?



A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus, for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!



***** Nilly
by Michael R. Burch

for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped―
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?



Low-T Hell
by Michael R. Burch

I’m living in low-T hell ...
My get-up has gone: Oh, swell!
I need to write checks
if I want to have ***,
and my love life depends on a gel!

Originally published by Light



Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch

“****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.



Animal Limericks by Michael R. Burch

Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I’ll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I’m dressed.
I wouldn’t change even one spot."



Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing―
just think of the tunes you can carry!"



Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch

There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.



The Pelican't
by Michael R. Burch

Enough with this pitiful pelican!
He’s awkward and stinks! Sense his smellican!
His beak's far too big,
so he eats like a pig,
and his breath reeks of fish, I can tellican!



Nonsense Verse about Writing Verse

The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...)
by Michael R. Burch

Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.



Other Animal Poems by Michael R. Burch

Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.



honeybee
by Michael R. Burch

love was a little treble thing―
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting



Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
by Michael R. Burch

Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.



Generation Gap
by Michael R. Burch

A quahog clam,
age 405,
said, “Hey, it’s great
to be alive!”

I disagreed,
not feeling nifty,
babe though I am,
just pushing fifty.

Note: A quahog clam found off the coast of Ireland is the longest-lived animal on record, at an estimated age of 405 years.



The Blobfish
by Michael R. Burch

You can call me a "blob"
with your oversized gob,
but what's your excuse,
great gargantuan Zeus
whose once-chiseled abs
are now marbleized flab?

But what really alarms me
(how I wish you'd abstain)
is when you start using
that oversized "brain."
Consider the planet! Refrain!



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.



The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
​


Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



No Star
by Michael R. Burch

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.



tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch



As one critic put it, the limerick "is the vehicle of cultivated, unrepressed ****** humor in the English language." But while some experts claim that the only "real" limerick is a ***** one, the form really took off initially, in terms of popularity, as a vehicle for nonsense verse and children's poems. And the limerick has has frequently been used for political purposes. Here are are three muckraking limericks of mine:



Baked Alaskan

There is a strange yokel so flirty
she makes ****** seem icons of purity.
With all her winkin’ and blinkin’
Palin seems to be "thinkin’"―
"Ah culd save th’ free world ’cause ah’m purty!"

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Going Rogue in Rouge

It'll be hard to polish that apple
enough to make her seem palatable.
Though she's sweeter than Snapple
how can my mind grapple
with stupidity so nearly infallible?

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved



Pls refudiate

“Refudiate” this,
miffed, misunderstood Ms!―
Shakespeare, you’re not
(more like Yoda, but hot).
Your grammar’s atrocious;
Great Poets would know this.

You lack any plan
save to flatten Iran
like some cute Mini-Me
cloned from G. W. B.

Admit it, Ms. Palin!
Stop your winkin’ and wailin’―
only “heroes” like Nero
fiddle sparks at Ground Zero.

Copyright 2012 by Michael R. Burch
from Signs of the Apocalypse
all Rights and Violent Shudderings Reserved

I wrote the last poem above after Sarah Palin compared herself to Shakespeare, who coined new words, rather than admit her mistake when she used "refudiate" in a Tweet rather than "repudiate." The copyright notices above are ironic, as the poems above were written and published before 2012.



Nonsense Verse

There was an old man from Peru
who dreamed he was eating his shoe.
He awoke in the night
with a terrible fright
to discover his dream had come true.
―Variation on a classic limerick by Michael R. Burch



There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
― Michael R. Burch



Dear Ed: I don’t understand why
you will publish this other guy―
when I’m brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!

Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who’s dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!):
since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager!
―"The Better Man" by Michael R. Burch



The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable ...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
―"Of Tetley’s and V-2's," or, "Why Not to Bomb the Brits" by Michael R. Burch



Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
proves all mass increases with speed.
My *** grows when I sit it.
Albert Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!
― Michael R. Burch


　
Hawking, who makes my head spin,
says time may flow backward. I grin,
imagining the surprise
in my mothers’ eyes
when I head for the womb once again!
― Michael R. Burch



Hawking’s "Brief History of Time"
is such a relief! How sublime
that time, in reverse,
may un-write this verse
and un-spend my last thin dime!
― Michael R. Burch



A proper young auditor, white
as a sheet, like a ghost in the night,
saw his dreams, his career
in a "****!" disappear,
and then, strangely Enronic, his wife.
― Michael R. Burch
　


There once was a troglodyte, Mary,
whose poots were impressively airy.
To her children’s deep shame,
their foul condo became
the first cave to employ a canary.
― Michael R. Burch



There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!
― Michael R. Burch



Doggerel about Doggerel

The Board
by Michael R. Burch

Accessible rhyme is never good.
The penalty is understood―
soft titters from dark board rooms where
the businessmen paste on their hair
and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse
with reprimands of Dr. Seuss.

The best book of the age sold two,
or three, or four (but not to you),
strange copies of the ones before,
misreadings that delight the board.
They sit and clap; their revenues
fall trillions short of Mother Goose.



Longer Doggerel

When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch

When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.

As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:

what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.

“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.

Whips! Chains! *******!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.

Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.



Happily Never After
by Michael R. Burch

Happily never after, we lived unmerrily
(write it!―like disaster) in Our Kingdom by the See
as the man from Porlock’s laughter drowned out love’s threnody.

We ditched the red wheelbarrow in slovenly Tennessee
and made a picturebook of poems, a postcard for Tse-Tse,
a list of resolutions we knew we couldn’t keep,
and asylum decorations for the King in his dark sleep.

We made it new so often strange newness, wearing old,
peeled off, and something rotten gleamed yellow, not like gold:―
like carelessness, or cowardice, and redolent of ***.
We stumbled off, our awkwardness―new Keystone comedy.

Huge cloudy symbols blocked the sun; onlookers strained to see.
We said We were the only One. Our gaseous Melody
had made us Joshuas, and so―the Bible, new-rewrit,

with god removed, replaced by Show and Glyphics and Sanskrit,
seemed marvelous to Us, although King Ezra said, “It’s Sh-t.”

We spent unhappy hours in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
drunk on such Awesome Power only Emperors can See.
We were Imagists and Vorticists, Projectivists, a Dunce,
Anarchists and Antarcticists and anti-Christs, and once
We’d made the world Our oyster and stowed away the pearl
of Our too-, too-polished wisdom, unanchored of the world,
We sailed away to Lilliput, to Our Kingdom by the See
and piped the rats to join Us, to live unmerrily
hereever and hereafter, in Our Kingdom of the Pea,
in the miniature ship Disaster in a jar in Tennessee.



The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch

The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I’m sure it’s not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to **** it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe ...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin’,
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’,
make us both early candidates for heaven.



Ding **** ...
by Michael R. Burch

for Fliss

An impertinent bit of sunlight
defeated a goddess, NIGHT.
Hooray!, cried the clover,
Her reign is over!
But she certainly gave us a fright!



Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch

Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.



The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch

A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”



Hell-Bound Hounds
by Michael R. Burch

We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!
I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner!

They’ll **** before they’re married. That’s unlawful!
They’ll even ***** in public. Eek, so awful!

And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!
They have no pride! They’ll even **** your leg!

Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,
our helpless hamster! None will go to college

or work to pay their room and board, or vets!
When the Devil says, “*** here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”

And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt
the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .

which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.
But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”


Menu Venue
by Michael R. Burch

At the passing of the shark
the dolphins cried Hark!;

cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee
there will be a serener sea
to its utmost periphery!;

the dogfish barked,
so joyously!;

pink porpoises piped Whee!
excitedly,
delightedly.

But ...

Will there be as much glee
when there’s no you and me?


Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch

Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!


Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch

after Keats

Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...

Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...

It’s time to make hay!

I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.


How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by Michael R. Burch

My face is getting craggier.
My pants are getting saggier.
My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.
My wife is getting naggier.
I’m getting old!

My memory’s plumb awful.
My eyesight is unlawful.
I eschew a tofu waffle.
My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.
I’m getting old!

My temperature is colder.
My molars need more solder.
Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder.
My wife seized up. Unfold her!
I’m getting old!



A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet”
by Michael R. Burch

Wont to croon
by the light of the moon
on a rickety ladder,
mad as a hatter,
Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon,
broke his leg,
had to beg,
repented of falling in love too soon.

A nurse, averse
to his seductive verse,
aware of his madness
and familial badness,
searched for the stiletto in her purse.

Meanwhile, Juliet
began to fret
that the roguish poet
(wouldn’t you know it?)
had pledged his “love” because of a bet!

A gang of young thugs
and loutish lugs
had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs.
They were doomed to fail,
ended up in jail,
became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!”

No tickets were sold,
no tickets were bought,
because, in the end, it all came to naught.

Exeunt stage left.



Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch

the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain



No Star
by Michael R. Burch

Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.


tRUMP is the **** of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch



Doggerel about Dogs

Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch

Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though he mostly just plops on my chest.

I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.



Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!

He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because ...
Because of the wonderful things he does!



Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch

I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
―Alexander Pope

We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)

They’ll never catch Us napping―
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.

But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.

The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew

who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.

But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter

and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.



Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch

When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.

First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”

Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.

Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).

Keywords/Tags: doggerel, nonsense, light verse, light poetry, humor, silliness, limerick, jingle, jangle, mrbepi

Just when you think it has ended
And people have matured
You’re ready to have all the fractures mended
But another infraction occurs

Four, Sixteen, Twenty
Some think it’s too much
And some think it’s simply plenty
Well I don’t give a ****.

Some are still just part of the flock
Letting the herd dictate their life
And I had honestly thought I’d stopped
Having to deal with that kind of strife.

Who are you to think you know better
Keeping things between the lines
Following arbitrary rules to the letter
So refined?  No, so confined.

Who do you think you are
Trying to put me on trial
Well you won’t get very far
Sieg heil! Sieg heil!

Is it who's genes fall where?
   Or the pains we bear?
Is it the way we fare?
   Or the words we dare?

What makes the "love" Love?
   What feathers a dove?
What makes you wear that glove
   That keeps you from Love?

Do we make you hostile
   And storm down your mile?
Have we filled you with bile
   And forced your "Sieg Heil"?

Tell, how long must we wait
   For a bouncing gait?
Will your demons abate,
   Or have you ****** fate?

Some hold on to the hope
   That with time you'll cope;
They keep feeding you rope--
   I say, "******* nope!"

I gave you inches-- feet
   And with it I'm beat.
I'll watch you bite the teet,
   Silent in my seat.

Since you won't share my genes,
   Still stuck in your teens,
You can't care for our fare--
   Have no words to dare.

You're the feather-less dove
   Never to rise above.
They gave you unjust bile
   And you praised, "Sieg Heil!"

It's sad to say this
We live under umbrella terms
On some kind of spectrum
Abiding by Murphy's law
Being read our Miranda rights
Numbers on a scatter plot
In other words it's an open invitation
For one trick ponies
To sideswipe us
Knock us for a loop
Knocking us down a few pegs
Making us a laughing stock
Sieg heil the zeitgeist
Study the hermit's manifesto
It speaks of finicky beggars
And groveling choosers
Honor slayings
Oscar-worthy faked *******
First rate blood baths
Second rate novelty acts
Bending over backwards
And knee **** reactions
Cooking up something abominable
Having it hit the fan
To ensnare and entrap all who are near
Hot off the knock-off stenograph
Tack on another ten thousand years
In other news...
       -Tommy Johnson

if you want to shine like the sun, first you must burn like it
and if you want to raise to the heavens, first you must plummet
and fall, to the scorched earth, losing whatever Godly crown you held
that was placed upon your head when you knelt down before Him
begging for power and might- you got it, you took it,
you led a whole nation to what you thought was salvation
but the fire inside you burned your heart out- it was too much-
you said, if I cannot reach heaven, then I will raise hell
and raise hell you did, creating hell on earth, pulling the
demonic spirits from leagues below the surface painfully, inch
by inch, you called them to us; if there is a God
He will have to beg for their forgiveness, won't He, because
you claimed the throne of God and sat on it
the starched pants cannot hold atop heavenly gold- and in the end,
not even you, Führer the ******, Führer the gory-
you had power and might but you could never have glory
you took what was not yours and you sliced and you gassed
the sons of our mothers were left gasping as they died under
your thumb, there is no more thunder left to call anyone home
there is nothing, there is nothing, and from this death lesson we learn:
to God tis' glory, and when men aspire
tis' but a spark too much of heavenly fire.

How I love your style
With your turn, your smile,
Your silly "sieg heil!",
Your sickness and bile.

Allow me to be
The thing you dream,
The constrictor of glee,
The reason for T.R.E.A.M.

Together we can,
We may, go away--
So swiftly we ran
Up along the bay

The others they yell
"No way, come and stay"
But swiftly you fell--
My hand led the way

if you fill your pockets with stones
if i make a bed in my oven
if we fade into whispers
who will write for us?

I.

your Blitz came in the form
of uterine invasion, tissue and blood
in ovarian prison camps,
red as the streets of London.

****** lives in the same apartment
with a beer gut and "paternal rights,"
sieg heil* forced into your mouth
and you are too weak to fight.

You close your eyes.
There has never been a door
to my bedroom, you think.

Blood seeps from your thighs.

Every night, you sleep for so long
and waking up is agony:
what if-- what if i didn't have to wake up again--

once-verdant fields are dry,
dreams are dead,

and the stones feel smooth in your palms.

II.

My world is a bell jar, a chrysalis:
I beat my tiny fists against the glass
until they are bruised as midnight.

They cried his name, cried "suicide,"
speculated on prescription cocktails
as they tipped back wine and thought nothing
of the ones he left behind,
crying on the livingroom floor.

Life was taken from me then
and I have no power to grant it now--
I am Rachel, barren, empty,
in need of a Bilhah.

I was born to a trailer park mother
and a farm-bred father,
and I am proud of them both--
their secondhand flatware was better
than any silver spoon

but here in the land of the stars and stripes,
you cannot break your cocoon
you cannot spread your wings
unless someone pays to crack your shell.

I am stuck.

My oven is apartment-sized
and the kitchen has no door
but it is small enough
that it wouldn't take long.

III.

You and I have loved each other for years,
and the cruelty of distance has kept us
from touching each other.

Once, you said you hadn't given up
because we made a promise to each other,
and it hadn't yet been consummated.

Part of me never wants to kiss you,
if only to keep you breathing.

IV.

Or maybe--
after--
we could hold hands
and walk into the ocean
together.

As in all Partici-Poems,
You're invited to add your own.
Based on Fake News and False Hope,
There's nothing here to help you cope.

Covid-19 is China's Beta version.
The real pandemic is yet to come.
They now have a one year head start.
They've proved they can isolate and destroy
Without leaving their country.
The Sleeping Giant has opened its eyes.

It's the Real Rich people's way of getting Really Richer.
It's a deal maker.
You're Hired.

It's all about Government Opportunity.
Remember Get Smart and the CONTROL Organization
For whom he worked.
If the shoe fits, GPS someone.

If we send young healthy Jimmy (who tested positive)
In to see all the Grandmas and Grandpas,
Think of the resources we'll free up.

Manipulate the markets.
Tell people Russia and the Saudis are friends.
But tell your family first.

Hydroxychloroquine
Not only will it cure you, but it promotes
Natural skin color, whether black, white, brown or orange.
This is supported by the WH Medical Dream Team.
It's a miracle. Deus ex machina.
Will also give you blue eyes and blonde hair.

And please use a clean syringe when injecting disinfectant.

SIEG HEIL

__________________­____________________­____________________­____________________­__________________

𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗖𝗔𝗡 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗜𝗠𝗘𝗦 𝗕𝗘 𝗢𝗣𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗘𝗗 in countries with neither significant oppositional forces capable of organizing mass protests nor oppositional combative forces? Intervention from the outside. But how exactly, given that a direct deployment of armed forces would be regarded as an invasion, provoke a full-scale military conflict, & undermine an attacking state's reputation both domestically & internationally? 𝗔 𝗖𝗢𝗟𝗗 𝗪𝗔𝗥 𝗢𝗡 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗢𝗖𝗥𝗔𝗖𝗬 𝗕𝗬 𝗠𝗘𝗔𝗡𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗕𝗟𝗔𝗖𝗞 𝗢𝗣𝗦. A special international agency/department could be organized (like **** mafia), which job would be recruiting agents for covert field ops in countries with authoritarian regimes & preparing them for such ops, preparing & coordinating such ops. Such agencies exist, & such activity is known, as it's been mentioned above, as "black ops". Such an agency would consist of: an intelligence team gathering intel on targets & coordinating field ops; recruiters recruiting former or current commandoes & field agents of diverse intelligence/security agencies; experts in "unaliving", armed & hand-to-hand combat, & tactics, checking candidates being recruited in terms of physical fitness, "unaliving" & combat capability, & effectiveness in field ops, &, in case of any shortage, training them to the level of a notional Robert McCall. Whereafter recruited agents would be "sent on vacation" to authoritarian countries for "lessening negative influence of figures composing local authoritarian regimes by unfriendly means" (if you know what I mean). A couple of corpses of publicly known state officials or state-linked figures found would have caused a stir in the media, thus having sowed panic among other agents of a respective authoritarian regime. Whereafter, utilizing an IP-spoofing tool & a fake e-mail address, anonymous demands for political prisoners to be released & for key or most-contributing-to-injustice state officials from each of the 3 branches of power to be resigned could be sent to the administration of a respective dic-tator. In case of incompliance, this "unfriendly campaign" towards agents of a respective authoritarian regime would continue. Yes, this is evil, but a necessary/lesser one.

Now, some clarification on some pertinent points of the aforementioned initiative.
- 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 𝗔𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗜𝗠𝗘𝗦 𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗙𝗜𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗕𝗘 "𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗧 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗕𝗬 𝗨𝗡𝗙𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗟𝗬 𝗠𝗘𝗔𝗡𝗦" (besides, of course, 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗦𝗖𝗨𝗠𝗕𝗔𝗚𝗦 𝗕𝗘𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗦 (more like d#ckheads) 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗜𝗥 𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗨𝗣𝗧 𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗜𝗠𝗘𝗦)?
- 𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗦𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗟𝗔𝗪 𝗘𝗡𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧, 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗬, & 𝗠𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗬 𝗔𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗜𝗘𝗦, 𝗕𝗘𝗜𝗡𝗚/𝗕𝗘𝗘𝗡: 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗕𝗟𝗘 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗢𝗥 𝗘𝗡𝗚𝗔𝗚𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗡 𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗠𝗣𝗧𝗦 𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗚𝗘𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗖𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗔 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗜𝗠𝗘 &/𝗢𝗥 𝗠𝗔𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗙 𝗣𝗢𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗬 𝗠𝗢𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗥𝗜𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗟 𝗖𝗔𝗦𝗘𝗦 𝗔𝗚𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗦𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗠; 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗣𝗟𝗘 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗢𝗥 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗘𝗗 𝗘𝗜𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗜𝗡 𝗖𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗬𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗥 𝗜𝗡 𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗭𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗣𝗛𝗬𝗦𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟 𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘 𝗔𝗚𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗦𝗧 𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗖𝗘𝗙𝗨𝗟 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗜𝗣𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗦 𝗜𝗡 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗧𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗦; 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗔 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗜𝗠𝗘'𝗦 𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗘𝗗 𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘𝗦 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗜𝗣𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗡 𝗔𝗡 𝗨𝗡𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗙𝗜𝗘𝗗 𝗠𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗬 𝗢𝗙𝗙𝗘𝗡𝗦𝗘 𝗔𝗚𝗔𝗜𝗡𝗦𝗧 𝗔 𝗡𝗘𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗕𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗢𝗥 𝗜𝗡 𝗔 𝗠𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗬 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗙𝗟𝗜𝗖𝗧 𝗔𝗕𝗥𝗢𝗔𝗗 𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗘𝗗 𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗜𝗠𝗘. 𝗝𝗨𝗗𝗚𝗘𝗦 𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗨𝗘𝗗 𝗚𝗨𝗜𝗟𝗧𝗬 𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗗𝗜𝗖𝗧𝗦 𝗜𝗡 𝗣𝗢𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗬 𝗠𝗢𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗖𝗥𝗜𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗟 𝗖𝗔𝗦𝗘𝗦, 𝗔𝗦 𝗪𝗘𝗟𝗟 𝗔𝗦 𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗔𝗧 𝗗𝗜𝗗𝗡'𝗧 𝗥𝗘𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗟 𝗨𝗡𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗧𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗔𝗟 𝗟𝗔𝗪𝗦. 𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗦 (or whatever the hell else they are called in other parts of the world) 𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗗 𝗔𝗡 𝗨𝗡𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗙𝗜𝗘𝗗 𝗗𝗘𝗣𝗟𝗢𝗬𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗘𝗗 𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘𝗦 𝗧𝗢 𝗔 𝗡𝗘𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗕𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗘, 𝗧𝗛𝗨𝗦 𝗜𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔𝗡 𝗜𝗡𝗩𝗔𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗢𝗙 𝗔 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗘. 𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗘𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗘𝗨𝗥𝗦 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗜𝗡𝗡𝗘𝗥 𝗖𝗜𝗥𝗖𝗟𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗔 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗗𝗜𝗖𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗢𝗥. 𝗧𝗩 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗣𝗔𝗚𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗦 𝗢𝗣𝗘𝗡𝗟𝗬 𝗦𝗨𝗣𝗣𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗬 𝗪𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗠𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗩𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗨𝗧 𝗧𝗢 & 𝗦𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗗𝗘𝗛𝗨𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗭𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦. 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗔𝗟𝗦𝗢, 𝗜𝗙 𝗡𝗘𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗔𝗥𝗬, 𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗬 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗙𝗙 𝗢𝗙 𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗨𝗣𝗧 𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘𝗦 𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗢 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗔𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗗 𝗚𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗣𝗦.
- How to bypass an airport security system with a piece(s) & lead?
- By means of having them transported in a metal-lined suitcase(s) with multiple internal compartments/layers & having them stashed closer to the bottom (in case an airport employee asks for a suitcase(s) to be opened to see its/their contents).
- Not sure whether it should be mentioned that such "unfriendly activities" should be conducted with as much discretion & professionalism as possible.
- In case any of recruited agents ends up dead or captured during their "vacation" & then imprisoned, their family/next of kin would be provided with a substantial financial compensation.
- Who could be involved… Nah, better this way: who should be dragged to funding such a cause?
- "Public-beloved" dollar billionaires, of course, including that sieg-heiling Musk *****.

In one part of the world, some 𝗣𝗘𝗢𝗣𝗟𝗘: 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗩𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛; 𝗙𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗩𝗜𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗦 𝗧𝗢 𝗘𝗜𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗠𝗜𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗬 𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗜𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗕𝗬 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗤𝗨𝗔𝗦𝗜-𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗥 𝗖𝗥𝗜𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗟 𝗔𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗠𝗔𝗙𝗜𝗔𝗦; 𝗔𝗥𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗗 𝗜𝗡 𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗘𝗫𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗖𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟 𝗦𝗢𝗖𝗜𝗢𝗣𝗢𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗟 𝗩𝗜𝗘𝗪𝗦 𝗢𝗥 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡 𝗚𝗘𝗧 𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘𝗗 𝗗𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗜𝗧. Meanwhile in another part of the world, some 𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙𝗜𝗦𝗛 𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗘𝗦 𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗗 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗦𝗢𝗡 (𝗕𝗨𝗧 𝗡𝗢𝗧 𝗧𝗢𝗢 𝗠𝗨𝗖𝗛): 𝗠𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗠𝗘𝗠𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗜𝗡𝗦, 𝗣𝗨𝗠𝗣-&-𝗗𝗨𝗠𝗣 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗠 𝗢𝗥 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗢𝗖𝗞𝗦 𝗜𝗡 𝗢𝗥𝗗𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗘𝗧 𝗪𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗛𝗬 𝗜𝗡 𝗔 𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗢𝗙 𝗗𝗔𝗬𝗦/𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗞𝗦/𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗛𝗦; 𝗛𝗔𝗩𝗘 𝗙𝗨𝗡 𝗔𝗧 𝗟𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗦𝗛 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗜𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗥 𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗟𝗬𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗟𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗜𝗡 𝗟𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗦𝗛 𝗦𝗨𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦; 𝗛𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗘 𝗢𝗥 𝗟𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗦𝗜𝗚𝗡𝗜𝗙𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗧 𝗔𝗨𝗗𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗙𝗢𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗦 𝗢𝗡 𝗦𝗢𝗖𝗜𝗔𝗟 𝗠𝗘𝗗𝗜𝗔, 𝗣𝗨𝗕𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗛 𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗠 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘 "𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗜𝗧'𝗦 𝗕𝗘𝗘𝗡 𝗔 𝗙𝗘𝗪 𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗨𝗧𝗘𝗦 & 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗛𝗔𝗩𝗘𝗡'𝗧 𝗔𝗦𝗞𝗘𝗗 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗔 𝗕𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗗𝗢𝗟𝗟𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗜𝗡 𝗔𝗜𝗗" 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗔 𝗠𝗢𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗜𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗘 𝗢𝗙 𝗔 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗗 𝗢𝗙 𝗔 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗦𝗨𝗕𝗝𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗔𝗡 𝗨𝗡𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗙𝗜𝗘𝗗 𝗜𝗡𝗩𝗔𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗕𝗬 𝗔 𝗡𝗘𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗕𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗤𝗨𝗔𝗦𝗜-𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗘, 𝗢𝗥 𝗦𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘 "𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗟𝗗'𝗦 𝗖𝗢𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗗𝗜𝗖𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗢𝗥" 𝗢𝗥 "𝗣𝗛𝗜𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗢𝗣𝗛𝗘𝗥 𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚" 𝗔𝗦 𝗔 𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙-𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗜𝗣𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡, 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘 & 𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝗣𝗛𝗢𝗧𝗢𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗠𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗩𝗘𝗦 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗛𝗔𝗟𝗙-𝗡𝗔𝗞𝗘𝗗 𝗕𝗢𝗗𝗜𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗥 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗪𝗘𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗛-𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗔𝗧𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗕𝗨𝗧𝗘𝗦 𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗠; 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗗 𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗦 𝗪𝗜𝗧𝗛 𝗕𝗢𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗙𝗨𝗟 𝗟𝗬𝗥𝗜𝗖𝗦 𝗚𝗟𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗙𝗬𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗦𝗠 & 𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗟𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗙-𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗨𝗟𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗢𝗥 𝗦𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗧 𝗟𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗦𝗛 & 𝗘𝗡𝗩𝗬-𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗩𝗢𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗖𝗟𝗜𝗣𝗦 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗦𝗨𝗖𝗛 𝗦𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗦, instead of attracting attention of their audiences to 𝗜𝗡𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗘 𝗚𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗠𝗨𝗟𝗧𝗜𝗣𝗟𝗜𝗘𝗗 𝗗𝗔𝗜𝗟𝗬 (which, on the other hand, may subject lives of some of them to danger posed by certain agents of injustice, cases of which exist). This isn't a justification of terrorism, but one particular school shooter was right: 𝗛𝗨𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗗 𝗜𝗦 𝗥𝗢𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗡, 𝗥𝗢𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗡 𝗙𝗥𝗢𝗠 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗜𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗗𝗘. Not all of it, but a significant part, if not the majority. One may wonder: "What worthy deeds of his own does the criticizing commenter have to say about?". None. The commenter's way of thinking is such that doing something benevolent to victims of injustice (for which there are other, kinder & simpler-minded people) won't reduce the influence of agents of injustice, & therefore such deeds have no value in terms of 𝗦𝗜𝗚𝗡𝗜𝗙𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗡𝗧 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗦 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥, which 𝗖𝗔𝗡 𝗢𝗡𝗟𝗬 𝗕𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗕𝗨𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗕𝗬 𝗗𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗧 𝗢𝗣𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗢 𝗔𝗚𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗜𝗡𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗘. But 𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗘𝗥 𝗔𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗢𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗜𝗔𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗚𝗜𝗠𝗘𝗦 with their elites loyal to them, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗡𝗟𝗬 𝗘𝗙𝗙𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗪𝗔𝗬 𝗢𝗙 𝗢𝗣𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗜𝗦 𝗕𝗬 𝗠𝗘𝗔𝗡𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘. Had the commenter access to "instruments of unaliving", expert skills in wielding diverse types of them & hand-to-hand combat, as well as more than fine fettle, he would already be doing something about injustice, instead of dumping his critical sociopolitical thoughts to the web.

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗕𝗨𝗧𝗢𝗥𝗦 𝗧𝗢 𝗜𝗡𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗘 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗕𝗘 𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗢𝗥 𝗦𝗨𝗕𝗝𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗢 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗧𝗨𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗘𝗫𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗟 𝗖𝗜𝗥𝗖𝗨𝗠𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗦 𝗧𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗬 𝗥𝗘𝗗𝗘𝗘𝗠 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗜𝗥 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗕𝗨𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗧𝗢 𝗜𝗡𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗘, 𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡 𝗜𝗙 𝗜𝗧 𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗜𝗥 𝗟𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗦 𝗧𝗢 𝗗𝗢 𝗦𝗢.
«𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗡𝗟𝗬 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗡𝗘𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗔𝗥𝗬 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗨𝗠𝗣𝗛 𝗢𝗙 𝗘𝗩𝗜𝗟 𝗜𝗦 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗚𝗢𝗢𝗗 𝗠𝗘𝗡 𝗧𝗢 𝗗𝗢 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚»
«𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗜𝗡𝗝𝗨𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗦 𝗟𝗔𝗪, 𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗕𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗦 𝗗𝗨𝗧𝗬»
«𝗘𝗩𝗜𝗟 𝗠𝗨𝗦𝗧 𝗕𝗘 𝗣𝗨𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗗»