WHAT TWO WRONGS CAN DO
When an insult demands I seek vengeance
Or I’m pushed into venting my spleen,
I hand down a punitive sentence
On my page in the Times Magazine.
If rascals conspire to get me,
My clues can turn cutting and caustic.
I strike back like a lexical Jet Li,
And construct a derisive acrostic.
To the girls in high school who once spurned me,
To the bullies who pushed me around,
To the jocks who would Indian-burn me,
I direct you to 34-Down.
To the street punks who dared to accost me,
To a boss who once gave me the sack,
To the Times editors who have crossed me,
I’m 5-Across-ing you back!
For the reader who wrote me from Van Ness
To say Tuesday’s puzzle was “trite,”
I’ve conjured a cruel Diagramless,
Which your wife and I filled in last night.
Any reader who’s wronged me should fear
A malevolent pun on his name.
The scariest words are “the paper is here!”
When Shortz is delivering pain.
Prince Andrew’s old flame
A Royal embarrassment
Stark naked actress
How Vito says “my mother!”
Victoria on the Disco floor.
Bjorn’s cry for help from ship to shore.
Don’t gamble on another.
You’ll find it in a flaming bag.
Luvs dirtied by your brother.
It mars the finish on your Jag.
The films of Tina Yothers.
A bottle rack Duchamp called art.
He chose it over others.
Bourgeois tastes were dull and tart.
Marcel was feeling smothered.
She’s Lilith, Frasier’s paramour.
Though Diane got her licks in.
On his boat the drinks were poured
For his best friend Dick Nixon