About a dozen years ago, smack-dab in the middle of the Bush II administration’s misadventure in Iraq, a friend despairingly said to me, “I feel like everything I’m being told is a lie.” I shared her despair, which has, of course, returned—on steroids—during this year’s fraught, overwrought presidential campaign. I’m agitated hourly (no, make that every waking minute) by the thought that a shameless liar of Donald Trump’s magnitude might conceivably be elected to the world’s most powerful post, but, frankly, I’m also irritated by Hillary Clinton’s unbecoming lapses from the truth and her incurable (it appears) penchant for secrecy.

Thursday, September 22

Autumnal
As we wait for next Monday’s big brawl,
Let us sip pumpkin-spice alcohol,
Say goodbye to the summer
(What a climate-change bummer),
And look fearfully forward to fall.

Pas Très Jolie
It is done. Angelina and Brad
Are not one “Brangelina.” It’s sad.
Now they’re two. Now they’ve split:
Ms. Jolie. Mr. Pitt.
No more Pitt-Jolie hyphen. Too bad.