Last At Bat.
The Bat out of Hell man bids us 'goodnight,'
It's time for that last final flight,
So set the Bat signal and the Radar transponder
And fly off into the wild black yonder.
(A slightly tongue in cheek obit. I'm sure Mr Marvin Aday wouldn't mind.)
'OK, now: Do I fly up- or down? The Hell if I know.'
Novak Djokovic is back on a plane,
Seems he appealed to the Courts in vain,
Guess Novak thought they'd bend the rules,
Guess Novak thought he'd play 'em all for fools?
Number One's badly misjudged his charms,
Yet his phalanx of Serb family remain up in arms
Demanding their unvaxxed hero be given a free pass;
Novak, the simple answer is, get the jab, you stubborn ass.
Novak, If you wish to come and play
Grand slam tennis in this sick ol' world today
Please make sure the visa declaration you signed
Is factually true, or you'll find your invitation declined.
Yet there is no happy ending to this story,
The Aussies are covered in- well, it ain't glory,
As Novak leaves he's 'entitled' to one passing shot-
Does the Aussie 'Government' have half a clue or not?
A Simple Sorry Apology From Of A Leader.
'It's not easy being Boris, Great Britains great leader-
My days are full of me busily sitting, lying, denying, cheating,
So it's little wonder at days end I sometimes need a
Moment to wind down with a wine or two at a work meeting.'
Even pig-headed Boris knows 'sorry' might not suffice,
He, poor sacrificial lamb, may have to bear the publics wrath,
Next time, Bo, keep the guests away, the champagne on ice
And, dumbass- don't try to lead us all down the garden path.
Back story: Tory party staffers were invited to an 'after work' bring-your-own-booze garden party at Number Ten Downing Street. 'Come and enjoy a convivial drinkie-poo or two in the close company of your kind of people whilst the hoi poloi are lawfully obliged to stay locked down in their common little homes.'
Pity Party/'Faux Sorry.'
Boris's party invitation is clandestinely extended,
To us, his 'special' friends, behind Number 10's closed door,
There we can mingle, unmasked as God Boris intended,
Because we're Upper Class, Eton, drinking, above the law.
As I work my way through the daily grind
Suffering through another infernal commute,
It's times like these test my faith in mankind;
Today I followed the devil- and he drove a ute.
In his rattly ol' Ford truck one fu- hell of a wreck
He shot into my lane without affording me a glance,
A wheelbarrow atop a loose load of bricks filled his deck,
It's a bloody miracle I didn't load up my underpants.
First he cuts in my lane, then he's late on the brakes!
Of his direction he gave no indication, no signal, no sign!
But God saith 'forgive thy brother of his errant mistakes,'
So I did not swear at the stupendously stupid swine.
Both windows wound down, stereo on,
From within Rammstein relentlessly pounds,
'Tis a pity both his air con and hearing have gone,
He won't give way but he'll share his sounds?
One hairy-knuckled grubby lackadaisical hand
Draped loose on the sweat stained steering wheel,
His other fat tatted arm, deep fried and deeply tanned
Resting greasy on the door, paint rubbed to bare steel.
At the red light I was sat right behind this troglodyte,
He took a deep drag on a Doobious looking cigarette,
On went the green light... still... I resolved to be polite-
The lights were on but his circuits hadn't connected yet.
Up to his rear view mirror a slow eye drifted-
He didn't give a hoot about my exasperated look,
But when I gave him my genteelest toot his attitude shifted,
Up flipped his middle finger- a nano-second it took.
He gave a sneer, put the f- Ford in gear
Held down the clutch, red-lined that poor V-8,
Only after the light sat on amber and red was near
Did he smoke away, leaving me to fu- fulminate.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
Since we cain't move, out of time, at this junction
I sat wondering on how far we've evolved as a species,
While that moron up ahead shows all the brain function
Of an angry pre-Neanderthal with a handful of faeces.
Oh Lordy, what a piece of work is this man-
I saw before me less man than abomination-
Jeez, this AntiChrist can't be part of good Gods plan-
I refuse to believe that is Gods crowning creation.
This example of Homo Defectus is big and dumb,
Lacking in rational thought and the humanoid touch,
His hands hold Mankinds finest tool- a prehensile thumb
Yet he relies on his reflexing middle finger far too much.
We're made in Thy image, so the Good Book says?
The high point of a full week of Your creative craft?
God, is this the result of slacking off on too many days?
This specimen shouldn't have made it past the first draft.
He is a butt ugly unblinking unthinking baboon,
The Creators barrel and hairy-chested massive fail,
A half assed rush job tossed out late Friday afternoon;
Less the Pride of Man than off the evolutionary scale.
I'm beginning to doubt my religious belief,
My faith in His humanity is swiftly dissolving,
Surely my lapse will cause my priest much grief
But at least my rational thinking keeps evolving.
Often I'd prayed for God to give me strength-
I kept calling on Heaven above but You're never in,
Lord, all I see is one quivering finger, upraised at length,
Sorry God; on todays evidence, it's Darwin for the win.
After re-reviewing 'It's A Wonderful Life' on the lead up to Christmas.
It's time to give 'It's A Wonderful Life' its annual airing;
It starts with Jimmy Stewart broke, suicidal and despairing,
Looking down from Bedford Falls bridge, life in free fall,
Jimmy (or George Bailey) is about to step out and end it all.
But from on high, a few concerned Spirits look down,
They don't wish to to see George high dive then drown.
George cries out he wishes he had never been born,
That his lost lousy life would be one none would mourn,
Suddenly an angel arrives to give George a new perspective,
Of how life could've been had his Dad worn a contraceptive.
(This angel isn't one of the Cloud Corporations best-
Of God given sense Clarence was less than blessed.)
So before George does his somersault into the maelstrom
Clarence showed George what his town would've become
Had Dad not stumbled in from the pub to find Mom awake
And all ready for bed, happily without her usual headache.
Now, Clarence's plan was plain and simple cracker barrel,
See, he 'appropriated' the plot from 'A Christmas Carol.'
George's sweet wife Mary, librarian, lonely, frustrated, single,
With no George, love of her life, she's not known love's tingle;
Hardened drinkers in the rough hotel sup, bitter and sour,
The ladies of the night bear their company, but by the hour.
His mother and brother are, in this iteration, both dead;
Bedford Falls is now a place even angels fear to tread.
Without the kind benevolence of Baileys Savings and Loan
All property belongs to Pitiless Potter, of the heart of stone,
There is no end to what was George's old towns current ills-
Silly Uncle Billy's in a straitjacket in Belle Vue, on happy pills.
George has seen enough, he can't let this nightmare occur-
He begs Clarry for a re-shoot, a re-boot, a reset, as it were.
And so George is catapulted back into the here and now,
But he must repay some missing money, Christ knows how?
Potter bangs at the door, soon his bailiffs will come a'calling,
George'll need more than pennies from Heaven to start falling.
George had faith in clownish Clarence, Heavens above?
Clarence as a good guide? Christ, what's He thinking of?
Lo and behold, Bailey's bailed out by customers and friends...
And there's where this sweet family favourite treacly ends,
Oh, first we hear Clarence is given his long overdue wings-
Don't that well up the tear ducts, tug at the heart strings?
Clarence is that new star up in the sky, so, unseen by day,
But even on a moonless night Clarry blinks dimly, far away.
And when Jimmy/George holds close his kids and spouse
There's rarely a dry eye to be seen in the sodden house!
If there's a deep well of sentiment, by George, Capra struck it-
But am I the only hard eyed cynic reaching for the sick bucket?
*Frank Capra, director of this classic feel-good flick.
(Hey, I like this movie- a lot- but it is getting cheesier by the year.)
Re-reviewing Tim Allens 'The Santa Claus' On the 24th (after a few too many 'egg-nogs.')
When the fabled if slipshod Santa Claus
Pitches off Tim Allen's gabled roof
'Accidental death' must be the obvious cause,
But with no body, where lies the proof?
No remains of Santa, only an etherial presence;
To Tim the quintessential question arose?
'Who'll deliver this shit sled load of presents
Now Santa Claus has turned up his toes?'
There's tonnes of gifts stacked up in that sled
All requiring delivery by- Christ's birthday?!?!
That ain't happening now Santa's stone dead;
So on who does Santa's responsibilities weigh?
Poor Tim must fill Santa's shoes and follow suit,
Legally obligated to change clothes and career,
Duty bound to stand in and deliver for the ol' coot,
Be the ass stuck behind eight free-running reindeer.
'Bloody fly-by-night contractors.'
(Just time to sneak in a Christmas post before the new year.)
A Joy Full Christmas.
Hark! Does not the sweet sound of carols remind us
We've put another sad working year happily behind us?
Now 'tis time to stop work, hang up the crusty coffee cup,
To clear out the In tray, dump the files and shut the Mac up.
Now we wait for the Boss to say her interminable piece
Before getting off on two glorious weeks of work release;
So nice to hear we're highly regarded by those who own us,
Such a shame 'tis not reflected in our wee Christmas bonus.
It's finally that jolly fu- festive time of the year-
Two weeks holiday leave lets me get outta here,
So, sadly, friends, I shan't be keeping you posted,
No, Dear loyal WordPress reader, don't feel ghosted.
As another year sputters to its Cov- Christmessy end
My sweetie and I've been invited to come and spend
Our Christmas far away from our normal domicile,
So, folks, you won't hear from me for a wee while.
It has been an all too easy decision to make,
To take a wee writing break- for Christmas' sake-
So I provide silent nights and your E-mail feed clear
Of further sadly seasoned rhymes till nigh on New Year.
For the next carefree work free week
Complete indulgent R and R is all I seek,
A chance to spiritually clear my weary head,
Leaving screeds I want to tell the Boss unsaid.
I need a break from overwork and WordPress,
My desire is to indulge myself sinfully, to excess,
So, 'Cheers; here's to goodwill and Peace on Earth,'
Even this heathen will toast to the special kid's birth.
The time is nigh to rest the work worn brain-
Plus, the joy of writing for pleasure's on the wane,
I'm looking forward to lazily watch the sun sinking,
So looking forward to sitting, drinking without thinking.
It's my time to really relax this Christmas time,
To sit back and turn my mind away from rhyme
And enjoy the hospitality of our youngest daughter
Drowning my sonnets in Tanqueray and tonic water.
Indeed 'tis high time I got myself pleasantly pissed,
Not brood over if my sparking verse is being missed,
I'll worry about work and writing after New Years Day,
Time to pick up a gin, lay down the pen and stick it away.
(A parody on an old well worn favourite; Sorry, Bing and Michael Bublé.)
It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Mechula.*
It's beginning to look a lot like I'm insolvent,
Where'd my cash flow go?
Down to my last 5 and 10, credit card maxed out again,
Oh, the painful amount of IOU's I owe.
I'm beginning to wish I'd not met loan shark Carmine,
Now all hell will start,
The brass knuckles he will bring will make my head fair ring,
Then he'll rip out my heart.
A pair of brutes in ill-fitting suits with pistols that shoot-
It's Carmine's hit repo men,
They say 'Carmine wants to talk, let's take a walk,'
But I ain't saying 'willkommen,'
I'm not mad or dumb or fool enough to open my door again.
It's beginning to look like I might not make Christmas,
My debts Carmine won't ignore,
What an ugly sight it is to see some thug pounding heavily
On my barred and bolted door.
'Nope, not exactly Santa come delivering presents.'
Last Hominoid Standing.
After the Beatles became a bona fide box office draw
Some savvy money men manufactured Mop-Tops, Mark 2,
Bob'n' Bert thought up the copycat Beatles, the Pre fab Four,
For Mr Rafelson and Mr Scneider, money see, Monkee do.
But their TV show band weren't expected to actually play,
Davey, Micky, Pete and Mike only had to lip-sync and mime,
They were supposed to act the part and pick up their pay,
But the play-actors playing improved out of sight, over time.
Fifty years of syndicated Monkeeing, on endless repeat
Ensures those four fabricated Sixties kids live on, in rerun,
But sadly, in reality, now Nesmith has rejoined Davey and Pete
It's either Micky as a solo act, or this Monkees troop is done.
Farewell, Mike Nesmith, and RIP; it’s a life well-lived when you can make generations of surly sixteen year olds smile sillily for half an hour.