The Beacon Beckons

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Star light, star bright, of the night
Light years distant, that ain’t slight
Can’t help but wonder if it might
Possess a planet that’s just right

To become a prison locked up tight
To lodge a madman who’s a fright
To end his pointless warfare’s fight
To mend his horrors hardship blight

To ease besieged land’s awful plight
Let’s launch Vlad villain out of sight
Steer his spaceship’s one-way flight
Towards that distant star light bright

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Father Gander?

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Dedicated to you, this word parking lot
Be you asphalt layer or launched astronaut
An on the lam lion or lamb that’s fear fraught
The well-heeled Rhodes scholar or frugal self-taught

If silly verse is what you’ve sought
Some frills, fluff, piffling afterthought
Check out this poem; it’s good for naught
Kin to “hey diddle diddle” diddly-squat

Life oft leaves us overwrought,
Both disappointed and distraught
Some reel unglued; some feel real taut
Be you cut loose flailing or spider web caught

This tossed word salad; an awful onslaught
Is this vegitable’s veggies; so fraught with rot
I’ve dogged you with doggerel; you’ve freely bought
A jug full of malarkey; far far from juggernaut

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Dedicated to Any Mays that May Remain

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Preface:

Star sight? Star not bright!
Faded / dimmed; by man-made light
I wish I may, I wish I might
Once more, make the night real night

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Purpose / Particulars:

Spars! Fights! Scars! Blights!
May’s mayhem I see; deem fright
I wish I may, I wish I might
Stir miscreants to see the light

“Mayday!” I yell! Tonight! All nights!
On behalf of folks; bereft of rights.
I wish I may, I wish I might
Forever forsake forlorn plight

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Nod to the Original Nursery Rhyme

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Nearly as Loose as Mother Goose?

Preface: Based on a popular English language Nursery Rhyme, my following revision is rooted in Donald J. Trump’s, latest “perfect phone call” where that little fusspot despot attempted and (fortunately) failed to strong arm Georgia’s Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger; i.e., persuade that state level official, a fellow Repubilcan, no less, to illegally muck up the vote tally to wrongfully deny President-Elect Joe Biden the Oval Office. While, most assuredly, there’s absolutely nothing pretty and principled re the (T)rump’s eye view of raw power, nonetheless, in a nutshell, the following rhyme sums up the Trumpster’s ‘tude this past weekend.

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Little Trump, flaccid,
Sat in panic room, placid
Feasting on his Fascist pie
He reached up his poop chute
Pulled out a coup d’état “cute”
And said, “What a good boy am I!”

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