Breathing In The Age of Swine Flu

Contagion Cap And Trade

   Because the icebergs of fear are melting rapidly, the World Stealth Organization has proposed limits on breathing. Human exhaling raises the level of carbon dioxide and is the main vector of virus disease. All patrons of gyms will be required to obtain Exhale Credits from sedentary people who stay indoors.
   A cap on breathing will be proposed at the next meeting in Geneva on July 4. However, it is recommended that all sedentary people of the hermit class apply for their Certification of Small Mouth Print now. Once that is done, they can write Carbon & Contagion Contracts that can be traded on the stock exchange. These securities can be bought by any person wishing to exercise to offset their Carbon & Contagion Mouth & Foot Print.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh

Shopping For Bananas

Shopping For Bananas

Laid off and walking,
watching the birds.
Supposed to be shopping.

Usually I bring my wife
a hard banana, and
she ripens it for me, but
not today.

A tilt I have into the wind
a lean on the buffeting force
that holds the gull suspended,
its eyes asking why
I don’t fly.

Without a sail, I’d
rather walk than
have feathers

But I could use a wing up when
blown backward by class envy.

I built small planes
for a hated tycoon who
flew before the Congress.

Now I am laid off
for conspicuous buzz.
I’ve bought a few books
for my new look, but
I’m too busy
to shop
for a banana.

I’ve been studying genetics, ‘though my
school abilities were pathetic, but I’m

willing to try my hand
for my family’s survival. I’m
joining the bandwagon, hopping
on the stimulus train hoping
there’s money where I’m going.

Good news! I’ve got
a job cleaning the cages
of a researcher’s mice,

nice to research the genetics of
the Pelosi Swamp Mouse.

Hurray. Save the mouse!
At least they can’t fly, and
we’ve a government grant.

Interesting work:
I label each mouse
by painting its ear
forbidden to call it
an earmark.

At the bottom of the treadmill,
they won’t
tell me much. I’m
running in circles
without a raise or a buzz.
They’ve made

a mutation mouse, Mickey 22XFS
a secret endangered species
to be released with pay.

My wife’s got
a secret recipe for
my banana bread,
says get a promotion
or we’re dead.

I’ve overheard.

I’ve decided on blackmail, but
we’ll have to move somewhere
near a Banana Republic.

I could tell the public they’ll be
releasing Mickey 22XFS
an endangered species actor,
onto a farm as a blocking factor.

My wife says ask for money,
tell the story of what they’ll say:

Too little water in California.
Don’t let the farmer kill the poor mouse.
Stop the farming, save the water.

Save poor Mickey
Experimental Farm Stopper Species
’cause he’s got a grant, and he’ll be
released with pay.

I’ve brought my wife a hard banana.
She’s pleased to be in paradise with me, ’cause
as they say, “man does not live by banana bread alone.”
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh

~~ Banana Bread ~~
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup soft butter
2 eggs

1-1/3 cups mashed ripe bananas
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 tsp. rum
1 tsp. milk

2 cups flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. nutmeg

1. Turn on an oven and set to 350 degrees F. Grease a 9x5x3 inch loaf pan and store in refrigerator to be used later.
2. While dancing the merengue, hold a large bowl. In the bowl, mash the butter into the sugar and stir and stroke until it’s smooth and fluffy like a meringue cloud. Keeping to the beat, beat in the eggs, but don’t forget to crack them open first and don’t include the shells.
3. Rest a moment for the hard part. You may have to stop dancing.
4. In a bowl to your left, stir together the mashed bananas, vanilla, rum, and milk
5. In a bowl to your right, mix flour, salt, nutmeg, and baking soda.
6. Begin dancing again.
7. On the down beat, blend some flour mixture from the right bowl into the large bowl.
8. On the up beat, blend in some of the banana mixture from the left bowl.
9. Continue alternating until you sweat.
10. Do a spin and turn the mixture into the loaf pan.
11. Bake in oven for 1-1/4 hours. Shake your hands to prevent cramps.
12. Using a pot holder or oven gloves, dance the pan out of the oven.
12. Cool for 15 minutes in pan.
13. Dump it out.
14. Cool off.

— Snerd Lee Limbaugh

Three Senators On Friday the 13th: Susan, Arlen, and Olympia

Three Senators on Friday The 13th

A thousand pages,
no one’s read it.
Catastrophe, catastrophe.

The Senate sits there:
Mount Olympus with Snow

A thousand pages
that sages needn’t read.
Catastrophe, catastrophe.
Vote, vote, vote for these:
a Hog Museum, and
Hybrid Dog and Pony
from the
Grand Genetic Collider

Catastrophe, catastrophe.
Drink a Collins and vote
with Snow

Catastrophe, catastrophe.
Et tu, Specter of the Senate,
you bring us a ghost of a chance.

Hope it works as
we all need a stimulus
and a hot dog.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh

Circulating Images

Circulating Images

Not stomaching the day,
tuna fish can empty.

The canvases
were spoiled by ugly reds, and
gloom was fed
the last crust of bread.

Doomed he brushed another,
painting a fish for trade.

He gave his
masterpieces to her
a supermarket manager
who risked it to a gallery, and
gave to him a fish.

She’s auctioned it,
sold it for ten thousand.

Hanging is the painting:
fashionable wall,
upper crust ball. The
picture’s picture is in the paper,
a public promotion growing

He’s moved:
a studio in the woods

The canvases were spoiled again,
a crust of bread so moldy.

Doomed he brushed another,
painting a lamb for trade

For lamb chops
he gave his
masterpiece to her
a farmer’s wife who
sold it to the banker.

The auction went well,
a sale for a million.

It was hung on a wall
for a mansion’s hall
with guards and velvet rope.

As good as gold
a “Fish” and a “Lamb”
were made
a collection piece.

He’s moved
to a hovel
painted an abstract.

To paint the rosy picture well
the syndicate’s issued paper for
the Greatest Artists’ Corporation.

To market
to market, the
art stock and bond

Home again
home again
he’s eating a frog.

He’s moved to the mountains
to look at the stars

The stock market has crashed
and so has he.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh

Snerd Lee Limbaugh Poetry Rush In Capistrano’s

Children of The Congress And Rush Limbaugh in Capistrano’s

Partisans of the Congress,
the people have no bread.
“Let them eat infrastructure.”

Businessmen don’t eat in
my Capistrano’s anymore. My
restaurant might close,
my waiters are laid off. The
swallows have come back, but
the fat cats have not.

Partisans of the Congress,
business has no capital gains.
“We’ll aim their taxes high —
a trillion or so.”

My chef is willing
to build a
trillion dollar road, but
he wonders if
his carving knives
can dig a dry hole

Partisans of Congress,
the people have no jobs
except for Limbaugh, the
last man standing.
“Don’t listen to him
a partisan.”

But Rush has come to Capistrano’s
laid a plan on my table. He’s got
a hope and a dream for change:
Let 540 billion bridges blossom,
460 tax cuts for Gotham —
his movie is hiring actors.
I’m taking lessons.
— Snerd Lee Limbaugh