Snatching Victory from the Toes of Sock Feet


How Many Times Does Ten Go Into Four? Only Once, So Far 

The Orange was almost outta juice
And their play, like Ty’s shoe, a bit loose. 
                But ’fore fans could give up, 
                Malachi lit it up— 
And to the Four go the 2-digit ’Cuse!


The Lamb, I AM


Really Good Friday

Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world:
                                           seeking lost sheep,
                                           seeking black sheep—
                                           the Good Shepherd.

Behold, the Lamb of God, without blemish or defect:
                                           silent before its shearers,
                                           led to the slaughter—
                                           the Passover lamb.

Behold, the Lamb of God, looking as if it had been slain:
                                           slain from the foundation of the world,
                                           author of the Book of Life—
                                           worthy to receive honor and glory and praise.

Behold, the I AM of God,  seated on the Throne:
                                          the Lion of the tribe of Judah,
                                          the Root of David—
                                          who takes away the sin of the world.

                                                            —O. Nonymous

Kick Me, I'm Scottish


This Is Sure to Get Me in Trouble—But Then, That Only Proves My Point

I’d like to dance a jig for ol’ St. Patrick,
Which I’d do, ’cept for the fact I’m geriatric.

I’d flash my head o’ hair, as red as flame—
But the color o’ what’s left is much more tame.

I’d say the Em’rald Isle thrills me all over,
But to my mind, well…a shamrock’s just a clover.

Of drink, I’d boast I never get enough—
’Cept by comparison, I never touch the stuff.

I’d cook a dinner worthy of St. Paddy—
But I doubt he’d be too pleased with Finnan haddie.

And I’d warn ya ’bout my temper, quick and fire-ish;
I’d do all o’ this an’ more—’cept I’m not Irish.

Yeah, I’d like to write a poem for St. Paddy,
But it might be took wrong, comin’ from a plaiddie.

                                     —O. Scotymous

McCareful What You McWish For

McDave the McJanitor, news-flash-McWriter, 
             In order to gin up his paper,
Like any good editor-griper-inciter
             Has devised a McClever McCaper.

McDave the McJanitor, Letter McWriter, 
             Wrote a McSample to follow,
For every McTom, McAndHarry McFighter
             Who wish in McWords to McWallow.

But what if there’s no one who takes the McBait
             And McWrites a McRousing McLetter?
Or how many weeks may we have to McWait
             Till someone McGoes one McBetter?

So I’ll write something brash that will light the McFire— 
             Make both libtards and tea-baggers jump;
Whichever McParty, I’ll raise your McIre: 
             “I’m voting for Donald McHillary McTed
             McBernie McMarco McWhoeverElse
             Sylvester McMonkey McTrump.” 

                                            —Dr. McMouss

Give 'Em an Inch and They'll Take a Million


Those Who Sued Subway Got the Short End of the Sandwich

Subway has long history of long and tasty food;
But their famous “Footlong” wasn’t always quite, and got them sued.
The young litigant, an Aussie with a massive appetite,
Took a selfie of his luscious lunch before he took a bite,
But he noticed with his Bushie eye it didn’t measure up.
(Though how, when modern metric Aussies don’t know “inch” from “cup”?)

“The sandwich that I ordered was a half inch short at least—
For years I’ve heard it said that they’ve been skimping on the yeast!
Because of that, I almost starved for lack of length of bun—
What? Evidence, Your Honor? Oops, I ate ‘Exhibit 1’…
But my stomach’s just the perfect size to eat a Footlong whole,
So I knew that I’d been cheat: when I was done, it left a hole.

“Well, I’m sorry that I ate up all that evidence for lunch—
But I’m sure you’ll still see to it Subway pays a whole big bunch.”
The magistrate, Judge Bob’s-Your-Uncle, seemed to side with him:
“I find for the complainant, though the evidence is slim.
Now, Subway has to measure up—and fees they cannot duck;
But for monetary damages…I’m ’fraid you’re outta luck.”

The attorneys shared a half a mil, as to the bank they laughed;
Ten plaintiffs’ reps got half a thou; I think we got the shaft.

—Sub Nonymous

Making Up for Lost Space

Last week’s Spot… 
               Proved to be a bit of a conundrum.

It was not… 
               Anon A. Mouse’s customary hum-drum.

Two of three… 
               Respondents to me said they didn’t get it.

My, oh, me… 
               Don’t get it? So what else is new?! Don’t sweat it!

Such disdain… 
               “It’s a waste of space—a grand, colossal foozle!”

Let me ‘splain… 
               (And be glad it was less baffling than usual.)

What I wrote… 
               Is a nod to Cage’s piece, 4’33”

Where you’ll note… 
               The performer simply sits there silently.

“Waste of space…” 
               You think that I would ever do that? Ever?!

Not’n this case… 
               It’s only me just trying to be clever. 

                                                       —4non 4.33 Mouse

Too Crazy Decades


It Can’t Be True That Genius Is Close to Insanity Or Mouse Would Be Off the Chart—Well, He IS Off the Chart, and I Think We Know Which One


Some Say that the Difference Between Genius and Insanity Is Measured Only by Success or Failure; Mouse Proves This Beyond the Shadow of a Doubt


A. Einstein: Proved that You Can Be a Genius Without Being Crazy A. Mouse: Proves that Just Being Crazy Doesn’t Make You a Genius

A. A. Mouse, that anonymous author of Spots
               Which weekly appear in the Sun,
Takes phrases and words and gets tied up in knots—
               In tangles that can’t be undone.

He tries to act brainy and clever and witty
               With those fifty-cent lexemes he uses;
But the best he can hope to inspire is pity—
               Cuz his writing his readers confuses.

His more refined nom de plume, O. Nonymous,
               Valiantly—desperately—fights this stuff,
By contrast attempting to be…humorous….
               Readers still (rightly) wonder, “Who writes this stuff?!”

They’re birds of a feather—two peas in a pod—
               Who, with name-shifting foil T. S. G.,
Write naught about nothing, excepting it’s odd:
               Tweedle-dumbs and their pal, Tweedle-dree.

They’ve been dancing around anonymity now
               A bewildering score of years flat.
But they’ve danced around close to insanity now
               For consider’bly longer than that.

                                            —A. A. O. T. S. G. NonyMouse