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WEEK OF MARCH 30

by Nicole Caruso Garcia

We bite the spongy heads off Peeps,
sweet bunnies’ ears we gnaw.
Now stumbling on a chocolate cross,
who wouldn’t stuff their maw?

Our Lenten fast is done at last,
our pious abnegation.
Jesus saves, so chomp His cross—
the path to salivation.

No Easter basket should omit
so scrumptious a depiction,
‘cause nothing whets the appetite
like good ol’ crucifixion.

Let heathens have their jellybeans,
just give them righteous eye rolls—
Christ’s mode of tortured execution
melting in our pie holes.

by Shaun Jex

“At Pentagon Christian service, Hegseth prays for violence ‘against those who deserve no mercy’”
—The Associated Press

Pete Hegseth
Prayed, Grant us our enemies’ death.
Let their breathing and heartbeats cease
In the name of the Prince of Peace.

by Bruce Bennett

“Chatbots are anything but fair-minded mediators, according to a major study published yesterday. They’re toadies. They want you to know you’re in the right.”
—The New York Times

My chatbot tells me I am right.
I knew that all along,
but wanted its assurance that
I’m not, and can’t be, wrong.

How wonderful to have a friend
as faithful as my bot,
especially since that faithful friend’s
the only friend I’ve got!

by Julia Griffin

“Original Nancy from 1968’s ‘OLIVER!’ Shani Wallis auditions [for Britain’s Got Talent]. … This BGT Unseen exclusive is a moment our Judges will never forget.”
—YouTube

Certain he needed you, you stayed with him,
With your bright hair, your dress of bloody red.
When I first saw you, I was nine. Your grim
(Though hidden) end did something to my head.
“Who else would love him still?” Well, no one sane,
Clearly; how could you stay just to be hit?
I longed to save you, fix your fate, your brain,
But scared (“What, fisticuffs?”) to think of it.
And then, this month, a half-forgotten name,
Aged 92, white-haired, with posher vowels,
You burst onto the little screen, still game,
Piercing all hearts—yes, even Simon Cowell’s.
Nancy! You saw off needy Bill, stayed true
To one ex-child who still, it seems, needs you.

by Steven Urquhart Bell

“‘A toad is a perfect tenner’: experts recommend wild candidates for new banknotes”
—The Guardian

For ten-pound notes, I nominate
The common eel, ’cos it’s
Symbolic of the way they’re always
Slipping through my mitts.

by Eddie Aderne

“Why has goblin porn eclipsed literary writing?”
—The Oldie

Can you conceive a headline more affrighting?
The great Reviews of Books fall back, forlorn;
For all their efforts, literary writing
Now finds itself eclipsed by goblin porn.

Though narratives be wholly unreliable
With temporally shifty points of view,
They can’t compete with the bizarrely pliable
Contortions of some hairy bugaboo.

“My works are polyvalent, polychromic!”
The latest critical sensation cries;
The answer is a line you might call gnomic:
“Our weekly earnings dwarf the Booker Prize.”

The cash pours in, the Gringotts vaults are rolling;
They’re quite unfazed by your distaste and scorn.
In fact, they class your best critiques as trolling,
The gloating marketeers of goblin porn.