Pussy Crooner

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Pussy was a musical cat. Sometimes the tabby played a lute and others a bagpipe. She yowled at pubs throughout the British Isles that bear the name Cat and Fiddle. Accompanists flocked to back her up. 

Nine long lives she lived and nine again but cats grow old, as do we all. She retired to a barn in Cheshire, then to an old wishing well with one last request: a concert. Johnny Green gathered a band for Pussy’s last show. His father beat him. Said, “A better mouser never was nor will be.”

Pussy had nought but praise. T’was time.

The Prodigal Fleece- An Ad

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No one asks for woolens anymore. No bags full for BaaBaa’s master or his dame, especially none for the trekkers freezing in Nepal waiting to climb to the top of some freaking mountain. Which one? BaaBaa can’t remember, but he knows exactly when wool tanked and fleece took off.

Warm, washable, even woolly if you get the right stuff. And BaaBaa makes the right stuff. He has a reputation to live down as the black sheep of the family- a misspent childhood, years in Nepal’s wild, sacred heights. He’s redeemed himself.

This bad boy kicks the competition. Woolmark, eat your heart out.

The Customer is Wildly Wrong

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The boat salesman overheard three men planning a rafting trip. When they approached the register, he estimated their combined weight at six hundred pounds and knew that the tub they’d picked would not make it through the calms, let alone the rapids.

“This one’s rated at two hundred fifty pounds. Two small women. Three children at most.”

He didn’t add that even one of these gentlemen would be enough to sink it.

“Well now, I reckon we can read,” said the ginger-haired man.

The mutton-chopped guy put down a credit card. “Customer’s always right.”

The salesman thought, Not this time.

Going for the Gold **

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Margie* told a little lie,
Fleeced those who did not know.
And everywhere that Margie went, 
The lie was sure to go.
*Marjorie Taylor Greene

It followed her to Washington.
It spread and spread and spread.
The hospitals filled with Covid deaths
In states the color red.

Sean Hannity said, “Get a vax.”
And so did Valentine*.
But Margie wouldn't know the truth
If it bit her from behind.
*Phil Valentine, conservative talk show host

I hope this rhyme does not offend,
It is not meant to do.
It's only that we can't pretend 
Fake facts will get us through. 

And why, you say, a send up
Of Mary's Little Lamb.
False claims did plague its author, though
She'd published her iamb.

Eighteen thirty was the date 
On Mrs. Hale's book.
'Twas nineteen twenty-eight, about, when
Old Ford* had a look.
*Henry Ford, famous for cars and conspiracy theories

He wrote that Hale plagiarized
The poem she’d published first.
The lie went out across the land.
This fib was not Ford’s worst.

His may have rivaled Margie's lies,
Though, that I do not know.
But at the time, he did his part 
Mean chaos here* to sow.
*Via his newspaper, Dearborn Independent

Nineteen twenty-seven saw
Him hateful towards the Jews.
The case, it went before the court.
The judge decried his views. 

Ford used slave labor overseas
To build in German towns.
Despite his past apologies, 
The liar doubled down.

So now we come to Margie's “facts,”
The same The Donald told.
Like Henry Ford they watch folks die,
While piling up the gold.

**Next week will be a drabble.

It Could Happen Anywhere

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In the closet where pillows were stored for the pandemic, stuffing lay scattered. Fabric soiled. So many had become mouse nests.

When first furloughed, the smart-looking cushions had done humorous impressions of the Nobel prize winners whose rears they recalled. Now that their padding had thinned, their numbers were also thinning. The best rotated among the dining room chairs. Not every guest could have a back support.

“Listen here,” the plumpest whispered. “A mouse ran under the Queen’s chair .”

The others cried in unison, “Where will it end?”

The door opened. Pussy Cat walked in. “I hear you’ve got problems.”

Let Him Catch a Wink

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Willie seemed embarrassed. “Mrs. Winkie’s suggestion. Some kaffeeklatsch nonsense.”

Several curious dads shifted on their barstools. “The neon yellow nightgown? Their idea?”

“Yeah. Said the kids would pay attention. I came up with the lantern and stopping in here afterwards.”

“So you don’t go all through the town.” The guy speaking had bags under his eyes.

“ Nah, that’s an exaggeration. Just my street.” Willie took a sip from his beer.

“Do the kids get into bed by eight?” Same guy. Seemed hopeful.

“Yeah, absolutely. Everything’s quiet when I get home.” Willie warmed to his subject. “And it’s cured my insomnia.”