Gourmet Grub by the Campfire’s Glow
(to the tune and chorus of “Home, Home on the Range”)
Poor Jean left his home in his chapeau to roam,
for a lover had left him forlorn;
telling amorous tales, sometimes sleeping in jails
when somebody complained they were porn.
Jean learned how to cook from a gourmet cookbook
in the Legion where he’d sought escape,
but the guns’ roar and gore he soon came to deplore—
he ran off once he’d learned to cook crepe.
Chorus:
Jean, fils of Valjean,
snuck away from the guards before dawn,
for the money he’d earned and the lessons he’d learned
were worth less than the cap he put on.
Jean grew quite rotund, XXXL aproned,
for he tested each morsel he made,
so he couldn’t run far and soon stopped at a bar
for sham-pon-ya and pink lemonade.
That’s where Jean was caught by the MP’s who thought
that his neck should be stretched like a goose,
but he poisoned the lot when he cooked up a pot
of bœuf bourguignon, then he cut loose.
Chorus:
Jean waddled away
in the hopes he might live one more day,
wondering where he would go for, he soon came to know
that from now on he’d live as a stray.
Jean first would embark on a steamer at dark
heading off to the U.S. of A.,
but the furnace’s toll as he shoveled the coal
burned him worse than Sahara’s mid-day.
So Jean hired on with a cruise ship at dawn,
sore afraid he could not camouflage
the great worth of his girth, but his mirth won a berth
as a cook for a rich entourage.
He was seasick all day for two weeks in mid-May
as they passed through a Nor’eastern gale.
Though the galley was fine, he could not cook or dine
with his head stuck inside of a pail.
Chorus:
Jean, seafaring lad,
knew that some things he’d done were quite bad.
He repented each day while his shins banged away
at the bucket with which he was clad.
On arrival, in fear Legionnaires would appear
and return him to his native land,
he would head way out west in boots, chapeau, and vest,
for he heard cooks were in great demand.
Passing through the Blue Ridge on a route without bridge,
in a valley a grizzly approached.
’Twas the first Jean had seen, and it looked very mean,
but he thought it might taste good if poached.
A woodsman took care, but he shot its derriere
which annoyed it beyond every pale,
yet the bear had discerned from a lesson once learned
to avoid men who passed through his vale.
Chorus:
Jean, Jean Lescargot,
told a tale of a snail that could grow
which he showed on a coach, causing sternest reproach—
he was banned for life by Wells Fargo.
For a month in St. Lou, he would meet quite a few
other cooks who were grizzled and gruff.
They had all cooked on trails where rough eating prevails,
but Jean never thought beans were enough.
At last Jean eloped with a mixed swarm who hoped
that their wagon train wouldn’t go bust.
He was paid room and board as a cook for the horde;
his chuckwagon, out front, got less dust.
Chorus:
Jean, Chuckwagon Jean,
loved the ladies, but kept his boots on,
because he saved a buck with each dollar he’d tuck
in his boots—if he wore them till dawn.
At first it was rough, but he learned lots of stuff
about meals-on-wheels cooking out west.
Though they cared for their steer, a cook wasn’t held dear
til his spam and his beans passed the test.
Every Indian who got to know him soon knew
they were welcome to share his repast,
although none dared be rude while devouring his food,
for his temper could not be surpassed.
Chorus:
Jean cooked on the range;
his companion, a dog with the mange,
but he wasn’t unnerved when he finally served
chen hors d’oeuvre finger food for a change.
Jean didn’t think beans were the traveler’s best means
to survive on such rigorous trips,
so he Frenched-up his stew and the séchée beef, too,
which he served with fromagey wine dips.
Every accent and tongue of those he was among
meant his menu took planning with care.
Like the Dutch, Turks, and Swedes, every group had its needs,
but they soon learned to eat what was there.
Chorus:
Jean’s Duck a l’Orange,
by a campfire’s glow may sound strawnge,
but seldom was heard a disparaging word,
for he cooked the best grub you could mawnge.
They listened in awe though his accent’s odd flaw
ruffled ears that were muffled by dust;
on the trails his regales were astonishing tales
of romance and adventure and lust.
All the stories he knew were quite bawdy but few
could believe any exploits he claimed.
“A great legend in love, I was sent from above …”
his Decameron sermons were famed.
Chorus:
Jean, teller of tales
of ribald and promiscuous frails.
He could sing a fine tune of adventures in June
and the naughtiness of life’s travails.
Jean aged on the trail: his health started to fail—
great circumference the bane of his call.
Though his bacon was cured, yet his heartache endured
from his need to be loved by them all.
Nearly each lad and lass chose to give him a pass—
the great chef often failed as a flirt.
Jean was buried out west with his hands ’crost his chest,
in his boots and chapeau, vest and skirt.
Final Chorus:
Jean, bawdy old Jean,
didn’t leave behind hide, hair, or spawn,
but the stories he told, far more precious than gold,
are still legend long since he’s been gone.
© Susan Weiman: From Coloring Book 2020
Kitcheneering
Today I became a contented new buyer
of something not really for me;
it’s the kitchen enigma they call an air fryer
but not one you’ve “Seen on TV.”
I spent many nights looking over websites
with reviews and statistics galore,
paying little attention to those would mention
the horrors of what they paid for.
I prefer to read prose of the pros for each knows
every foible, their highs and their lows;
when they disagree, then it’s left up to me—
though my confidence ebbs and it flows.
I become referee; those who know me agree
that’s the place where my best judgment shows.
Once my expert opinion’s culled from their dominions,
I come out ahead by a nose.
It’s not something I’ll use—no, I must recuse
since my cooking, in most people’s views,
is not what they’d choose: those who know will abuse
any the efforts I take to amuse.
They’ll tighten the screws, say they’ve paid all their dues
and they’ve eaten some old kangaroos
in much tastier stews, therefore they must refuse
from providing me kinder reviews.
It’s home now and vested; the sweet bird who nested
our eggs and put fledglings to flight,
will return fairly soon and will find to her boon
a new counter appliance delight.
Since there isn’t much space, I moved things from their place
and I hid them away, though in fright,
’cause she’ll ask, “Where’d they go!” and I’ll say, “I don’t know!”
then I’ll face the pet-peeve of her spite—
my spirit uncrested,
my choices contested,
the purchase protested,
not what she requested,
and though it’s not tested
(and she hasn’t rested),
I’m hopeful she’ll try it tonight.
An Abecedarian Sonnet
A sonnet is a bard’s poetic form
but less ubiquitous than bawds’ lim’ricks
(converging on the walls of stalls their norm,
dispersed with where to call to get your kicks).
Exceedingly well-known, some quatrain licks
(forget-me-nots you quickly memorize),
gyrating like two couplets as they mix,
homogenous, entangled hips and thighs
in rhymes entwined while sharing moans and sighs,
joined head-to-toe and places in between,
kick-assing like two teens to win the prize—
lovemaking with a mien that’s oft’ obscene.
Most memories play havoc with a scene
not learned except as sonnets back in school,
oppressing students’ mind and heart and spleen,
prerequisites to be the teacher’s tool:
queued up against the kids who played it cool,
replete with words which Shakespeare only knew,
self-confident that someday they will rule
to take revenge on bullies who would spew
unkind remarks and spittle on those few
voracious minds who hoped that they might learn
what wisdom they could glean before they rue
xerosis of gray matter in their urn.
Yet sonnets can be fuel to help transform:
zephyric winds which lift our human swarm.
Insight Out
The ostrich observed, with its head in the ground,
that the earth wasn’t flat but was 3D and round.
Far below, underfoot, although quite far away,
were oceans and continents in full display.
This magnificent dome on a giant rotunda
whose floor was concave also caused him to wonda
why those of short stature say what they observed
was a surface beneath them that’s flattened, not curved.
Perhaps if their heads were pulled out of those places
where sunlight and truth were obscured from their faces
they’d see both the light and the shadows which show
there is much more to earth than what they seem to know.
Philosophical dreams which they’ve given wide berth
have a dearth of the wonders of heaven and earth.
Five Fallacious Follies
1) Overgeneralizations: Generally Speaking
Overlygen’ralized
by a brain undersized,
beset by tsetse flies
most of the time,
meant he would only see,
stereotypically,
vague generality;
logic subprime.
2) Straw Man: A Load of Bull
“Straw Man, Straw Man, have you any wool?”
“No ma’am, no ma’am, just some bull.
But, if you tell me that’s what you need,
I’ll argue fervently this point, indeed:
‘Sheared sheep can’t sleep—don’t you hear their cries!’
I’ll pull the wool over both your eyes.”
3) Ad Hominem: When You Don’t Have Sticks and Stones
Add hominem grits to your argument’s bits
(instead of attacking with facts when they’re lacking)
to sink the foundation of someone’s creation,
of what they believe when they hope to achieve
your agreement with truth when they tell you “Forsooth,
there is nothing more true—it’s too bad that your view
has gone gangly awry. You’ll agree, by and by,
that your thoughts are mistaken; the road you have taken
is not the right path and is worthy of wrath.
Attend to my pleas and you’ll soon find with ease
my position, once taken, can never be shaken.”
Such confidence hastens advance of your caissons,
artillery carried ensuring they’re buried
with onslaughts well-aimed so opponents are maimed,
but if armory parries each arrow which carries
the poisonous darts of your oration’s arts,
strike not at their notion, don’t test their devotion,
but take a new tack in your form of attack:
consider their vanity, hamstring their sanity,
use the occasion to bring your persuasion
to challenge their person, see countenance worsen!
Don’t counter their claims, but instead, call them names.
4) Post Hoc: Wherefores and Therefores
Because of random circumstance,
statistics may appear to dance
not only by mere happenstance
but post hoc, ergo propter.
Hence unrelated incidents,
though often just coincidence,
may be declared as evidence:
eventualities.
So let false argument advance,
to put opponents in a trance—
that this occurred not just by chance;
ipse dixit opter.
Oil imported from Norway
will chart like deaths by railway.
No connection, not hearsay—
just strange realities.
So, when explaining facts you use
take extra care so you’ll confuse
those who use truth to disabuse
your argument impropter.
5) Red Herring: Misdirect to Best Effect
(after “When The Foeman Bares His Steel”
by Gilbert and Sullivan in “Pirates of Penzance”)
When opponents bare their steel,
and their logic makes you reel,
then perhaps the wisest thing
is to misdirect the sting.
When you fear that you have lost
and your argument’s been tossed,
there’s nothing brings you round
like a loud and raucous sound
that makes people run around.
Send them after misplaced clues;
give them unrelated news,
gently redirect their views
in the hopes they won’t accuse
any faulty argument,
what it might misrepresent,
because when your case is weak,
you should never let it speak,
but just give the facts a tweak.
Yes, Virginia, There Are Snapdragons
“Please tell me where limericks come from.
Of course, I already asked Mum.”
“Dear, research reflects
they’re not very complex
but they’re far more than parts of their sum.”
“But let’s start online: Mentalfloss
has an article I’ve come across.
Twenty-three words sans rhyme
which, in fact, rhyme sometime
proves you often must floss away dross.”
“Let’s take ‘gulf’—that’s a difficult rhyme,
though a common word heard all the time.
It rhymes both with sulf
and the fluff we call culf
which is what pillows puff when they mime.”
“Sulf is the word that I’ll choose
for the limerick that I’ll write and use
to explain where they’re from
because antirrhinum
is a toadflax, a plant that we’ll muse.”
“Toadflax and sulf are the same,
like a rose which has more than one name.
Snapdragons belong
to the toadflax/sulf throng
(common scents says they’re not of rose fame).”
“But sulf doesn’t always belong
in the fields where their roots have grown strong,
and that’s where they’re weeds
so we try to stop seeds
that they spread, though bees buzz their own song.”
“To interweave all that we’ve learned
about snapdragons (weeds where they’re spurned!),
we’ll wrap this up tightly
with prose which will rightly
confirm that their limerick’s earned”
“First, on the website Mentalfloss, we find ‘23 Notoriously Unrhymable Words (That Actually Have Rhymes).’ These include ‘gulf’ which rhymes with ‘culf,’ an old southwest English word for the loose feathers that come out of pillows and cushions, and with ‘sulf,’ which is another name for toadflax.”
“Next, Wikipedia tells us toadflax is the common name of several related genera of plants in the plantain family Plantaginaceae. This includes chaenorhinum, cymbalaria, linaria, misopates, nuttallanthus, and antirrhinum, also known as snapdragons, which are considered weeds wherever they are not native plants.”
“Now we simply concatenate this conglomeration of collected cognitive constituencies into a limerick combining the appropriate architecture with artistic artifice and adequate assonance:”
“Snapdragons are antirrhinum.
They’re toadflax—weeds where they’re not from.
Sometimes they’re called sulf,
(one of two rhymes for gulf),
and you see where this limerick comes from.”