Friday, September 30
The Limericist’s Valediction
I’m not sorry if I’ve upped your dander
Or upset you with obnoxious candor.
But I’m saddened and tearful—
No, no, not at all cheerful—
To say farewell to dear Mediander.
I, who’ve been a paid poet on deadline,
Who’ve enjoyed every Friday a headline,
Give you thanks, my dear readers
And my faithful cheerleaders,
As I go out and queue in the bread line!
But it’s sure been a whole lot of fun
To make fun of that Son of a Gun.
And both I and my Muses
Surely hope that he loses.
In the meantime: Bye-bye, everyone!
Thursday, September 29
Hey there, Donald, if you’re throwing stones,
Why just Gennifer? Why not Ms. Jones?
Why not Monica, too?
(But be careful, ’cause you
Have a closet as full of old bones.)
Wednesday, September 28
Hey, is Donald Trump pumped up on coke?
Would his tax returns tell us he’s broke?
And those fries and fried chicken
He finds so finger-lickin’—
Will they make him keel over from stroke?
Hey, is Donald a KKK shill?
Does he secretly send checks to Jill?
Is he in Putin’s bag?
Is his penchant to brag
A sure sign that he’s mentally ill?
What’s it mean that his hair’s gotten whiter?
Does a corset keep Trump’s tummy tighter?
And (down there) are his glands
Just as small as his hands?
And, hey, why is Don Trump such a blighter?
Tuesday, September 27
The Morning After
OMG! I don’t know about you,
But this morning I keep saying, “Phew!”
She was good. He was bad—
Was, in fact, kinda sad—
And I bet he won’t do the next two.
Monday, September 26
I can’t breathe and my stomach’s a knot.
My bowels grumble. My brain hurts a lot.
Thinking of the debate
I can hardly think straight.
I’m in need of some medical pot!
My anxiety is through the roof,
And I feel like a punching bag—oof!
And the thought of tonight
Is a black widow’s bite.
Help! I need a shot! 100 proof!
When I watch, I won’t eat any snacks—
No potato chips, pretzels, Big Macs.
What I want isn’t food
But to alter my mood
With a couple of dozen Prozacs!
Sunday, September 25
As we wait for Don’s push and Hill’s shove,
I am praying to Heaven above
That the Jersey Assembly
Will stop acting so trembly
And will vote to get rid of their guv.
I will blow the Assembly a kiss
If they lower the boom upon Chris.
’Cause we all know he knew it.
(Prob’ly told ’em to do it!)
A Chris Christie impeachment—pure bliss!
James Waller is Mediander’s “Deadline Limericist.” (Apologies to Calvin Trillin, The Nation’s longtime “Deadline Poet” and, in James’s opinion, a much more versatile versifier.)