Dear readers, as this is the last column before Christmas Day, I have a little something special for you. It's a poem. I hope you like poetry. I actually don't, much. All too often it sounds like someone with cognitive dissonance just saying whatever crosses his mind.
I do like what is commonly referred to as "doggerel," defined as "trivial, awkwardly written verse." But I like it anyway. Doggerel dances along merrily with skippy rhythms, and it rhymes. I like to read rhyme, and I like to write it. Never do I think harder about a word than when I'm trying to find a rhyme for it, and I like thinking about words. I like thinking about where they came from, the nuances they carry within them, why one syllable is given stress over another. I like thinking about what our mouths go through to say them. Just picture the acrobatics your mouth is going through whenever it says "Massachusetts" or "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious." Phew!
I especially like thinking about the tonal qualities of words. You've noticed how some words carry within them an atmospheric resonance that extends beyond their strict definition, and on into whatever rhymes with them. "Doom," for instance—is there not a distinctive vibe that comes with the very enunciation? But wait... listen to the rhymes of "doom": gloom, boom, fume, exhume, loom, tomb, Brit Hume—see what I mean? It's onomatopoeia taken to a primitive level, I'm convinced: a holdover from those ancient nights when Neanderthals were squatting around meager fires, experimenting with differing grunts and groans to communicate their misery.
But, back to that poem I wrote for you. It is not particularly cheery, but I believe it's appropriate for the season. Perhaps not the season you have in mind, but a season, nevertheless.
"Prithee We Whump the Plumpish Grump"
Our times have soured, or so it seems,
From so many jarring bumps;
That shake our faith when turned to memes
And thrown at us in clumps.
They'd have us feel it's all gone bad,
Those curs of the G-O-P sump;
They've spread the fear of mass jihad,
And fooled the dumb as Gump
It's by design, you have to see,
Contrived and meant to stump;
We're now so scared our pants we pee,
Transformed to quiv'ring lumps.
It's worst from one I'm loath to name—
An especially repellent schlump—
For every reference builds his fame,
Helping him his rivals thump
Worse'n all the rest, this noxious turd,
this boor with hair so frump;
As dev'lish as King Dick the Third,
Except without the hump.
We mustn't let ourselves be led
By such a mouthy chump;
Whose whole appeal depends on dread
Of horrors up which he'll pump.
You know the one of whom I warn,
That fascistic horse's rump.
He who was so scabrous born
Donald J. "Asshole" __________!