“President Donald Trump, on Wednesday, January 21, 2026, scrapped the tariffs that he threatened to impose on eight European nations to press for U.S. control over Greenland, pulling a dramatic reversal shortly after insisting he wanted to get the island ‘including right, title and ownership.’”
He eyed up the ice for a deal, Which he swore he could buy or would steal, But now he’s retreating From his warlike chest beating, as if it had all been surreal.
This is quite an honor to have three lengthy poems of this level of density and abstraction published on a high-traffic site like The Good Men Project. Please visit if you have a minute.
This is a highly visited online publication per Gemini AI: “The Good Men Project:~2 – 3 Millionmonthly visitors (varies by source, sometimes listed as 1.9M unique visitors)“
FYI -- the formatting for "roads closed" was lost when posted on their site.
UPDATE: Roads closed was removed from their website, requested by me, due to formatting issues. I will post an update when Roads closed is published again.
Here is “The Great Healthcare Plan,” The finest concept known to man. No need to think of how this works Or who this helps and who this hurts.
This policy is the greatest, most wonderful healthcare dream, The biggest savings anyone has ever known or seen. We’ll slash the drugs, making deals with forced consent, By three hundred, four hundred — five hundred percent!
We can’t pay off the middle men, That’s up to you to do, my friend. If you need more to make you well, Then just follow our plan, straight to… well… straight to where I might one day dwell.
The pick and roll is part of play, And catch what coach has got to say. But there’s a more important task: Collecting bags of major cash.
You miss the shot, you miss the rim, While placing bets outside the gym. We take the bribe to slip and fall, No cap, it’s part of basketball.
We fill the jerseys up with green, The wildest flex you’ve ever seen. We pray the Feds don’t watch the game, Or we’ll get cooked and take the blame.
It’s great to hang with looks that slay, To drive the whips and soak the rays. To hit the clubs and play the field, To party hard and never yield.
But danger lurks in losing games, Not from the fans or public shame: Don’t leave behind some mid-wit tell, That turns your set-up into some cringey, grungy, hoopless cell.
The Greenland saga continues to intensify, and this Zumwalt poem addresses the latest escalation of targeted tariffs, contrasting the gravity of the situation with a bit of humor. Given the history of Greenland with its European associations going back to the 10th century, Zumwalt chose a poetic style common to English speakers of that era: Anglo-Saxon alliterative meter.
This is the third consecutive month that Zumwalt has had a work published at New Verse News and the second day in a row a Zumwalt poem has been published in a literary journal.
This poet has run out of drink, With no further incentive to think, So a prompt-driven app Now spits out my crap, Spewing poems as I watch my brain shrink.
My steel-wool scrubbed & Comet-clean spuds grate with injurious gusto Protect the enamel at all costs! And a sheen is added to our distended esophagus. Wintry blasts of fluoride and chlorophyll attack the waste But only further pollute the abused frame. Death enters the corridors, stalking stealthily in the Ajax-whiteness. All is blinding! There is no more gray! Josephine is become a slaughter-baron. Ammonia chokes us all