The Twit Who Would Be King

Art Buchwald’s brain was stolen from his crypt
And whisked away to Washington, D.C.
Where hand-picked doctors—scrubbed and gowned, tight-lipped—
Prepared to operate in utmost secrecy,
Deep underground where a certain big cheese goes
To have his failing hearts replaced (code name
“The Codfish in the Emperor’s New Clothes”).
This time the patient was a flash whose flame
Had flickered and gone out (code name “The Twit
Who Would Be King”). His wife was at his side
When he came to and beamed. Art Buchwald’s wit
Compelled his host to lean close and confide,
“So tell me, Baby, what’s it like in bed
With somebody who’s diagnosed brain-dead?”

First published in Light: A Quarterly of Light Verse, Fall/Winter 2007