Sonnet from the Porch de Guise

What strategy might gamekeepers pursue
when fifteen thousand crocodiles escape?
Steve Irwin might have handled one or two
hundred—snuck up and grabbed them by the nape—
but fifteen grand's a lot of crocodiles.
The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers
might be prevailed upon to use their wiles,
perhaps deploying crocodile tears
to shunt the great grey-green Limpopo back
toward home? Nay, let a simpler cure prevail:
night wrangler teams with torch and tackle track
the red-eyed beasts and haul them back to jail.
Now, what might fifteen thousand crocs consume
for lunch? Not “what”, O Best Beloved: “whom”.

(Yeah, it's a little late... based on this news story from January. See also here.)

Sonnet from the Porch de Grief

Greg Wolford, cracking wise and breaking gay,
wrapped in a sheet and snoozing standing up
from too much smoky, nutty chardonnay
(or was it vodka?) from a sake cup;
Greg Wolford, blithely tagging Whitey’s walls
(well, metaphorically, at any rate)
and lobbing sophistries like tennis balls,
but never as a vehicle for hate:
Abrasive as that fuckpig daily got,
and notwithstanding jokes on death and AIDS,
Greg's [ho]modus vivendi[ckus] was not
in any sense injurious; his charades
were perfectly transparent—a neat trick
that’s worthy of its tagline: "Greg’s a dick."