In Which I Chortle At Some Fakery

I love a tale of fakery. El Myr,
And Clifford Irving, just like Orson Welles
Can never fale to make me smile. It's queer,
My fondness for a forger. Now my bells
Are chiming once again; in Germany
A brazen couple seems to have made fools
Of many auction houses, experts we
Let natter on about breaking the rules
Of form and color, loving to extol
Exemplary and striking qualities
They've just made up. I find it all quite droll,
How art is only art when someone sees
Just what they want to in it and declares
Astounding values on a faker's wares.

In Which I Muse On A Boy And A Balloon

So really, who's surprised there was no boy

Aloft in that great mylar sausage which

Went drifting just today? A mere decoy

Some cried, just to seduce us, just to switch

Attention from the issues of the day.

So Falcon Heene, son of a wife-swap team

Who also chases storms, betook to play

A joke of which a Cliff Irving might dream.

So what? We take diversion where we can

Amidst this vale of foolishness, don't we?

Now I, for one, felt envy; I'm a fan

Of soundless balloon flight. Had I been he

I would have been aboard, and prob'ly dead

From crashing down and landing on my head.