Men are naturally drawn to politics
and sex
Most are drawn to one, both, or the other
It all depends on how breast fed by mother
The factors involved are very complex
In the case of Frankie Legault leader of CAQ
One would have to go back to his gestation
to track
Whether his mother read the Financial Times, Wall Street Journal
the Journal de Montreal, or Le Devoir
Aha, you correctly guess
La Presse
I read a Montreal Gazette headline today forecasting the 2018 Quebec election campaign. “Quebec election: CAQ headed for comfortable majority – poll analysis“. Poppycock I say. Thus, I carved out a sonnet, my Poem for Pundits:
As political pundits caress their crystal ball
They reflect opinions of their bias
They cast black shadow with gusto and gall
Words illuminative—my ass.
Predictions, predictions, then more predictions
They fill up their notebooks with predictions
Then disseminate them as if verified
Cast far, misinformation she’s multiplied.
We voters are left with foundation of sand
A footing slippery forever shifting
When all I want is to understand
To ascertain who is and who is not shoplifting.
I want an honest, reputable critic
So I don’t have to breath four more years mephitic.
Blueberry Pie
I made blueberry pie, blueberry pie
Actually I made two blueberry pies
Two is better than one and I’ll tell you why—
Leaving one for tomorrow is very wise.
When I want a cup of water
I take a cup
And naturally just add water.
But when I want a cup of water
free of pesticides
free of insecticides
free of radionuclides
free of bull-shiticides
I take a cup
of gasoline
put it in a bottle
and wonder whether
Vyacheslav Molotov
ever wrote poems?
An election is scheduled for Quebec on October 1, 2018. What better time than to post a poem called Sweet Potatoes. Enjoy.
In sultry August voters hardly care
That King Couillard’s cupboard is quite bare
But come the last week of September
Voters, precious voters, will become aware.
They will grow aware and will remember
The dysfunction of their flaccid member
For Liberals have a particular knack
For forgetting constituents in November.
In every Democracy there is a crack
That offers power to crook and quack
This time is the time for Legault to go
Merrily down le Trois-Rivières track.
And poor Jean-François and Manon Massé will show
That social democrats have more fields to hoe
There must be a severe drought, I swear
Before sweet potatoes in Quebec may grow.
Dear Raif, I hope you are keeping well
Imprisoned by sheiks rather tender
Saudi Arabia, desert fiefdom, Hell.
My nose of freedom allows me to smell
The blooming of nastiness in all its splendour
Dear Raif, I hope you are keeping well.
When oil and justice are controlled by cartel
Anyone who opposes is considered an offender
Saudi Arabia, desert fiefdom, Hell.
They have given you shelter in a hostile hotel
With your liberty deprived, your hope is slender
Dear Raif, I hope you are keeping well.
Now your sister keeps you company in an adjacent cell
Injustice defiant knows no gender
Saudi Arabia, desert fiefdom, Hell.
I wish the ugly truth I could dispel
But Canada’s priority is to remain a vendor
Dear Raif, I hope you are keeping well
Saudi Arabia, desert fiefdom, Hell.
August 5, 2018
This past week saw the first Frank Scott Poetry Day held in the sluggish province of Quebec. I say sluggish, because in February I had asked both the mayors of Westmount and Montreal if they would proclaim the day. A simple task. Neither took up the challenge, so I had to invoke the authority granted by Percy Shelley, who said poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. I exercised my unacknowledged authority and proclaimed August 1 as Frank Scott Poetry Day. For the celebration I wrote the following poem, The Last Poem Of F.R. Scott.
In restful Mount Royal Cemetery lies a plot
Where British and French foot-soldiers fought
Today the bones of Francis Reginald Scott
Occupy a nation going to pot.
But the last poem of Frank’s ought
To have taught us a helluva lot
Because it was spot on, on spot.
But now his poem is gone, is gone.
He had given his subject considerable thought
For law should halt the exercise of brawn
Though in his later years injustice was brought
Because scurrilous scoundrels had sought
To levy, cast heavy revenge upon
The bilingual map our founders had drawn.
But now his last poem is gone, is gone.
Lokshtanov 