Madame of Oxford

There was a rich person of Oxford,

All coiffed, bejeweled and foxford,

Who, feeling a chill,

Had her Coupe de Ville

Fleecelined, and also her soxford.

—Roy Blount, Jr.

An Epiphany

Wailed an earnest young monk of Duluth,

“Where O where is the ultimate truth?”

On his dome, from above,

Fell the dump of a dove—

Prompt reply, if a trifle uncouth.

—X. J. Kennedy

Domestic Incident

From the rack, with rope-stopped throat,

Father hangs like some old coat.

Junior runs to Mom to beg:

“Let’s take Poppa down a peg.”

—X. J. Kennedy

The Censor

Senator Noe sets up as referee

Of everything we read and hear and see.

His justification for such stiff decreeing

Is his standing as a perfect human being

Without a jot of blemish, taint, or flaw,

The Dixie embodiment of the ethical law,

Always eager to pursue his quarrel

With God Whose handiwork he finds immoral.

—Fred Chappell

The Beautiful Bowel Movement

Though most of them aren’t much to write about—

mere squibs and nubs, like half-smoked pale cigars,

the tint and stink recalling Tuesday’s meal,

the texture loose and soon dissolved—this one,

struck off in solitude one afternoon

(that prairie stretch before the late light fails)

with no distinct sensation, sweet or pained,

of special inspiration or release,

was yet a masterpiece: a flawless coil,

unbroken, in the bowl, as if a potter

who worked in this most frail, least grateful clay,

has set himself to shape a topaz vase.

O spiral perfection, not seashell nor

stardust, how can I keep you? With this poem.

—John Updike

Televangelist

He claims that he’ll reign equally

With Jesus in eternity.

But it’s not like him to be willing

To give a partner equal billing.

—Fred Chappell

The Wedding

There was a harp a woman played.

Doves were released. The cake tottered.

A jazz band played gospel. The gardener sang Verdi.

There were candles on the lake. And cardboard swans.

The photographer wrestled with angles. The in-laws

wrestled with the photographer.

The caterer popped pills for her blood pressure.

The bride’s dress was very old.

A trained pit bull caught the bouquet.

The honeymooners left in a vintage Rolls.

I’m not signing anything until I see the bill.

—J. E. Pitts

A Pianist Plummets

Penelope, provoking child,

How pointless and ill-bred

To plunge from your piano stool,

Pretending to be dead.

It puts poor Mother into fits,

It causes Papa pain;

And presently you must arise

To play your scales again.

—Jeanne Steig

Mishmash

Making mashed potatoes, Myron?

Must you mix them with a hammer?

This bizarre, misguided method

Causes quite a katzenjammer.

Might you add the milk and butter

In a more majestic manner?

Might a mallet not be better?

That would minimize the clamor

—Jeanne Steig