1.

Old man up street

(kittles call ‘im Trut Mout)

say he yerry dayclean,

like fairy cymbals,

Cellophane wind chimes

From far edges

Where slygroggers dwell.

2.

Trut Mout, he got

Skookum mojotion

Red-shifting half-bone

Of Zeroth Quartile,

Congressional debate

Endless procrastibation

For tetrapods,

Exurbianites,

Quackopractitioners

Of trigger mortis.

3.

(Up north we heard

911 call from burg

Called Paris

(rhymes with hairs, not harry),

Guy has intruder,

Pops off four rounds,

Pop-pop-pop-pop,

Lots of screaming,

Official tape awaits

NRA exploitation,

Whydonchu

All you all

Got you guns, son?)

4. 

In Oyrish Gaelic

Ain’t no word for yes or no,

Shakespeare’s English

Stretched maybe 60 miles

From London; elsewhere

They spoke like, Elsewise,

Not unlike our pols

Whose words have purchase

About same distance from

The capitol building. 

5.

All this talk makes me tummy

Yearn for tucker,

I crave strozapretti

In caper sauce,

With sparrow grass

And unmitigated Barolo

(If'n  ya's ain't got none,

I'd settle for

This week's blind tiger skokiaan) 

6. 

Tis  nightkill bydayclean

And snow still floats

Sideways by yon

Windows, a preview

Of (let's W.A.G.)

the next 117

Days, c’est vrai!

7.

Growing up

there was this

Mister Eyemachination

we kids all watched

and that's the extent

of the memory.