Happy Birthday To @Netta50

A writer must have resources beyond
The norm; an editor needs even more
To cope with what comes at her and respond
With grace. Annetta has these by the score:
Wit, humor, fortitude and all the will
She needs to make things happen, as she's done
For many, many years. I'm sure she'd kill
Me if I said how many, e'en in fun
(Not really; she's got too much style for that,
Though for My Little Pony she might yet
Demand revenge. She knows how to combat
Its ill effects, though). On this day I'll bet
She's drowning in good wishes, but I'll add
One more birthday hello. Call it a fad!

SONNET DARE: In Which I Call Out The Cholecyst On A Good Friend's Behalf

"Choleric" could describe Netta Ribken:
Of late our girl has been on quite a roll
As she cranks out her novel. Then again
Her temper she has kept under control.
Yet all that passion had to go somewhere
The gallbladder is where that tends to go
(At least per Great Hippocrates). Unfair,
I say it is! Now, what took place next, though:
(Besides the ambulance and surgery
And stay in hospital) was a near-brawl
Twixt Netta and, there in endoscopy,
A doctor -- that, I cannot help but call
Hilarious! As I've been there as well,
How glad I am that Netta gave 'em hell!

BONUS BONUS SONNET: Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Meus Equus Parvus

Miss Ribken, O my wise and gentle friend,

Who was so kind this morning as to share,

This madness, Horsey Planet, to no end

But generosity! T'was most unfair

Of me to repay such as such I did.

My tweeting fingers sometimes, on their own

Share naughtiness from deep within my id,

Which id loves now and then to hear a groan

Of anguish at a pun or inside joke.

I hope Brent Weichsel's mash-up was a cure

For earworm torment. I know I provoke

A further dose of wrath, in fact I'm sure,

By naming here the song for readers: it's

"My Little Pony." May it cause no fits.

In Which I Share My Cure For Earworms

It happens now and then to one and all:
A song plays in our brains in endless loops.
It's rarely one we like but we're in thrall
E'en worse when one we hate makes us its dupes.
Sometimes inflicting them becomes a game
(As Netta Ribken oft accuses me),
In which one tries to implant the most lame
Tune of them all with much unholy glee.
However, I am armed 'gainst these attacks.
The secret arsenal within my brain
Has Schubert's "Trout Quintet" upon its stacks.
Not only does it cancel lesser tunes;
It well evokes an angler's afternoons.