Don explains why your vote matters only to him. Or not.

Out Voted.

Donald's lost last election was a nightmare-
For him, losing fair and square just ain't fair,
Alas, he's not equiped to believe he can lose,
The vote had to be fixed to fit in with his views.

So it's time to trot out the lame loser's excuses,
To whisper conspiratorially of ballot box abuses,
Between lies and the Greatest Ego's swelling
The pure simple truth is lost in the telling.

Now hear the latest greatest idea Don airily floats-
Exhorting his credulous followers to sit on their votes
Till he's unconstitutionally reinstalled as Head Of State!
And all shall bow and scrape to King Donald the Great!!

It's obvious to most Donny covets absolute power-
See his Republican kowtowers huddle and cower,
Principles freely abandoned to his bullying voice?
Democracy or Demagogue? Right- it's your choice.


Reflecting back on that first true love; sweet moments to remember.

Ours To Lose.

It was at a Saturday night dance
I shyly made my hopeful advance,
She gave me an appraising glance...

A test, amazingly, I passed.

She noted my clumsy tread,
My cheeks flushed hot and red,
By dances end 'twas she who led,

I, left following, eyes downcast.

This lass had lightening feet,
Her every fleet move I'd repeat,
Close, but just behind half a beat.

I'm no expert, but at least an enthusiast.

Panting towards the punch bowl
This sweaty parched dry-mouthed soul
Suggested a cool libation and a quiet stroll?

'Yes' she said 'but we'll go with a blast.'

With a wicked grin
To our punch she slipped in
A fifth of five star Firewater gin.

Tonight we'd be getting rat-assed!

I was barely a boy of sixteen,
I was naive, gauche and green,
But still she seemed pretty keen.

Could- would- I lose my inhibitions at last?

Her urgent kisses tasted so Frenchly sweet,
We pawed our way down the dark street
Looking for some place to be indiscrete.

How I embraced being sexually harassed! 

In a patch of long grass we lay,
And, despite my fumbling foreplay
She soon laid me back and had her way.

And my innocence lay in the past.

So in the matter of a moment
What I'd lost left me happily spent,
My seductress, alas, left pleasure bent,

So sad I'd dishonoured myself so fast.

‘Gimme five minutes or so and we’ll be all good to go.’

(Not a true story. Honest! This story was relayed to me by a good friend…)


After watching ‘Who Is Killing The Great Chefs Of Europe?’ and ‘Monty Python’s Meaning Of Life’s Mr Creosote.*

Pigging Out.

As I sit drooling with unbridled lust
People seeing me sat at table pass by with disgust,
For when I bend to attend my groaning platter
They don't wish to be covered by my tucking-in splatter.

Whilst  I consider myself a fine epicure
I'm sure fellow diners and waiting staff demur,
Yes, I shovel it down at an alarming rate
But it's bad manners to leave a morsel 'pon one's plate.

I don't wish to see good food go to waste
As the mirror shows when I reflect on my waist,
Once I was a lesser man, and twice as thinner,
Before I doubled up on breakfast, lunch and dinner.

 But I feel I really came into my own
When I went foraging in fields dieticians don't condone,
On becoming the local CarniVoracious' best guest
The last vestiges of my foolish youthful veganism went West.

The waitress, every sinew straining
Laid the entrée on the table, moaning and complaining,
A whisk of the cloche revealed the sumptuous feast,
The sizzle of ham and bacon unleashed my ravenous beast.

Roots and green shoots are all very well
But no golden grain beats this rare richly savoured smell,
I bless the day my love for pork turned to ardor
And vegetables went to the back of Mother Nature's larder.

I'll sometimes forsake pork for beef
But good Sirloin offers me only temporary relief,
Turkey's OK to get stuffed on on Thanksgiving
But I'll happily leave most poultry in the land of the living.

Plump partridge perch on my fence, unafraid,
It's a rare day I'll indulge my taste for quail, sautéed,
Most fowl, field and stream food gets overlooked,
Forget poached salmon, it's Porky Pig's got me hooked.

So keep your fresh harvested seafood on hold-
Your steamiest tenderest crustacean leaves me cold,
But plate me more pork and this piglet can't stop,
I'm such a sucker for suckling, hock, crackling and chop.

Please pile my empty platter high
With sweet succulent porcine cuts till I die,
Mary might tempt me with her lamb
But Mary's favourite can't compete with best ham.

Chef, bring me your finest fare,
Waitress, drag up my double-wide chair,
Tuck that napkin 'neath my double chin,
This will get messy when I start gettin' stuck in.

I'm a boarish omnivore, a greedy glutton,
But Chef, I won't bear lamb served up as mutton,
I know I'm not eating well, deep in my heart,
Still Chef- gimme your spare ribs or I'll tear you apart.

* Fair warning. If you have not seen 'Monty Python's The Meaning Of LIfe' Mr Creosote scene- you are missing a treat. Sort of.



My bad sports report; today, Premier League soccer sucks and Rugby League blows.

Last Minute Panic.

It's the time all Palace fans truly dread-
One lousy minute left, just one goal ahead,
Goalkeeper Guaita, kindly punt that ball on high,
Up there, where lowly seagulls flap and eagles fly.

No, good Guaita, no, not flat and low-
Don't make the ball an easy return- no- NO-
Yes, again, in the last minute, as victory beckoned
We find ways to even honours, even at the last second.

A Seagull flung a hopeful foot at the sphere...
We watched three precious points disappear,
Lo, our slow thinking/reacting 'keeper was lobbed;
If you give the prize away don't say 'we wuz robbed.'

But Guaita, we can't blame only you-
There's blame aplenty for Mr Ayew too,
Will next week see Jordan retain his spot?
Today proves beyond dispute he's a shit shot.

If only the ref had blown early for no side,
If only Ayew had shot home, not dribbled wide,
If only goaltender Guaita could have his kick back,
If only Ayew was an asset, not an ass in our attack.

(Brighton And Hove Albion- One; Crystal Palace- another one where the win becomes a draw.)
'Support Palace and this pose is painful- predictable but still painful.'

Stooopid Snotty Kid.

Let me tell you of the travails
Of young Reece Walsh, Wonderkid-
The latest of those all-too familiar tales
Of a kid caught crying over what he did.

Reece was struttin' his stuff uptown
But when told to move on by the Police
He didn't, so he was arrested and patted down-
And possessing a bag of cocaine sealed it for Reece.

Another wizz kid dazzled by life's easy riches,
But he's got some slick moves given half a chance,
Already a Dad at 19, a dumbass too big for his britches
Who can't keep his wee bit of co- coke tucked in his pants.

This morning high flying Reece is full of remorse,
From red eyes and perforated septum real tears flow,
He's fully committed to a full Drug Rehabilitation Course
And not getting caught with pants down or a nose full of blow.

(Rugby League, in this case the Aussie NRL, proves again that anyone with half a brain can still make some kind of name for himself.)

'But officer, it's one little bag...'

Alabama had more deaths than births of late; Why, we wonder?

And Todays Darwin Awards...

See, down South we don't need no damned inoculation
Even if its approved by the Food 'n' Drug Administration,
There's Lord knows what in that mixed-up Devils brew
And our Pastor sez th' Covid's just some jumped-up 'flu.

Our quiet Southern backwa- backwoods 'burg ain't the place
For out-of-towners to drop in masked and not show their face,
Folks don't need to wear no mask in our free and open streets,
(Only time we hide our face here is 'neath the holey white sheets.)

Here we don't need or heed no Snowflake driven mandate
Tellin' us where, when 'n' with who we can freely congregate,
To Fauci's foolish talk of catching Covid we remain immune,
And, like Don, we truly do believe 'twill all blow over soon.

We won't be putting no contaminants in our red-blooded veins,
Least not while a drop of pure pig-headed Rebel blood remains,
If the good Lawd wants to take me to Glory, to sit by His hand
I'll go unvaccinated, knowing my demise is what God planned.

                        - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Well, two weeks have gone since I wrote the note above...
I fear I might've been premature 'bout Gods eternal love...
It was at choir practice I remember I started to feel poorly,
But under Gods roof nothing ill could touch me, surely?

I drove home, the Pastors blessings ringing in my ears
With his sincere hopes my snotty head cold quickly clears...
I took a shot of Mucinex, a slug of bourbon and hit the sack,
Took to my bed, began to hack, closed my eyes and lay back. 

I recall waking up once to see all my kin gathered 'round,
Din't need no no-show Pastor to tell me I wuz Glory bound.  
Looks like I up and died, and now I'm stood on Cloud Nine
Waiting to see Saint Pete, I'm at the end of a long long line.

Seems there's many in this queue who shared my view,
Like me they din't really expect to get called-yet- by You,
It seems a lot up ahead who see Saint Pete get short shrift,
Seems if ya ain't had a jab that Saint gets almighty miffed.

Seems Gods place for us is in some lockdown quarantine!
Seems God expected us to accept and inject that vaccine!
Seems God Hisself sez simply denyin' pure scientific evidence
Is a Hell of a way of not using plain God given common sense. 

'Dang, seems they was right to keep harping on and on.'


September, early spring, a time of hope and renewal? Not on the nineteenth it ain’t.

Date Stamped.

Born before me,
Gone way before,
I won't ever see 
His like no more.

That remains crystal clear.

Born this day
Many moons ago,
It hurt to say
Goodbye too soon, bro.

Dry up, stupid tear.

So this September 
We're here again,
To stand and remember.
'Time Heals All Pain?' 

Nope; not this year.

  Learn it fast, son- life ain't fair.

(No attempts to force humour today. Tomorrow’s another bright new day, and I’m sure the sun will rise as per usual and cheer us all up. Soon enough.)


California news; Newsom won, Elder lost, so who’s not gonna believe it?

Red-eyed And Blue.

So, Newsom has won through again
And in power Gavin shall legally remain;
He's been easily democratically re-elected
Leaving all conspiracy theorists disaffected.

Now, after all the counting is complete
Those Right still refuse to concede defeat,
Though California's a deeply Democratic state
The wrong result, for them, remains up for debate.

Fraudulent mail-in ballots are the latest claim-
The once-trusted Post Office must be to blame,
'Well, ya can't trust the Deep State,' sez QAnon:
Truly the Right folk of California feel put-upon.

If the vote did not go in God's and the Rights way
Prophets who have God's ear spread hearsay,
Though Dems outnumber Reds two to one
'Surely the Devil's work has been done?'

They mutter darkly of mail fraud on a HUGE! scale,
Can it truely be Gods Will that an Elder should fail?
Even after Republican losers and QAnoners alike
Had prayed for Gods help- or a Postal strike?
'Shucks, it ain't f-f-fair that nice Mr Elder di'n't win. Sh-shoot.'


So, my lass; it’s exciting times ahead. Difficult though it may become, try to contain yourself.

The Riddle Of Man-kind.

Sometimes all it takes is that romantic getaway
And you wake up- rather late- one fine day
To find you two are in the family way.

'Twill soon be when you find your mind turns
From mundane trivia to more childish concerns-
Oh, how swiftly the lessons the mum-to-be learns.

Like, how swift you go from peeing on a stick
To spending a lovely morning being (w)retchedly sick,
And increasingly, if you need to pee you'd best be quick!

But since this writer is just your Dad
It's a parental concern this father's never had,
Call me a misogynist, but- gee whiz- I'm rather glad.

I sympathise with you, my dear daughter,
As skips to the loo become longer, not shorter,
Could it be another UTI, or something in the water?

Then, as those creeping stretch marks begin to grow
Suddenly those most inconvenient flow-ons begin to slow,
Oh, the joys of Mother Nature's Mysterious Micturition Show! 

At first how miraculous this conception did seem
Till come the realisation that in joining the Kids Team
Results in finding blissful relief shuts down in midstream.

So, does the scan show a mister or a miss?
Many may well say there's little matter to this-
But gender matters- in the matter of taking the piss.

To bear a petite precious little miss, 'twould be a blessing;
Or a big boy, kicking at your kidney, constantly compressing?
I'm sure I'd be pissed off too, but as a dude- I'd just be guessing.
'First it's dealing with PMS, now persistent water retention- I'm feeling seriously pissed off.'


A daughter half a world away in these non-travelling times; what other advice can a poor Dad offer?


When I see the sweat fall from an honest hard working manual labourer’s brow, I can but stand and weep.

The Road To Rohypnal.

Jesus, I raise my sorry eyes up to yon hills
And marvel at our Councils road-makers skills,
Gobsmacked, I watch the fine fluoro vested crew
As twelve strong men strive to do the work of two.

They rolled up to this neighbourhood
With our crooked corner to make good,
By this junction, traffic's become Mighty scary
Best crossed by the grace of God and a Hail Mary.

I've stood on the edge, internally debating
If all things will come to he who stands waiting?
But Lordy, Your timeworn words are hard to take-
I'm patient, but Christ above, gimmie a traffic break!

When told our passage would be realigned
Straight away this news brought peace of mind,
Come Monday and the trucks and mob descended
And since then the dirty muckfest has never ended.

Never has our quaint quiet street led to such strife,
Never seen a bigger pile of cr-crushed rock in my life,
Never has such corner cutting driven me round the twist,
It's hardly working, standing about, talking loads of schist. 

They've diverted traffic, made a single lane;
Now at least one can cross slow and safe again,
The pity is the convenient shops in our strip mall
Are now reduced to local foot traffic or fu- none at all.

The empty car park is a sad and lonesome sight,
There's few who, in passing, dare risk turning right,
This eternal dust cloud doth render the outlook hazy,
To shoot the gap in the temporary fence- nigh on crazy.

Sandeep, sad owner of the corner store
Lazes on the counter, gazes out the front door,
All night long Sandeep lays awake, far from sleep,
'Cause here, for twelve long hours, scarcely a peep.

At the back door pouts spouse Kizmet,
Fanning away smoke from her cigarette,
Brushing ashy evidence off her shop smock,
Chain-smoking her way through the shop's stock.

The Fish shop's cashed in its chips,
The Coffee Corner's cashed up its tips,
The Mountain Bike Repair outfit is in bits,
In his chair Barber Bob morosely sits and sits.

Dentures-In A-Day Dennis grits his teeth,
Floral Tributes is busy- making its own wreath,
For St. Chad's Church Charity Shop the end is nigh
And it's time to permanently wave Hair Today goodbye.

We'd taken this road work as a Godsend
But now will this piece of work never end?
For four months we've lived in this no-go zone
To see hopes, dreams, plans and budgets blown.

The time to be done has long come and gone
But the boys with the shovels won't be leaned on,
And dissing 'em as a lazy lot don't sit well with diss staff -
But they'll happily work Sunday, at double time and a half.

In the crisp early morn, they're there on the dot,
Signed on, and then someone puts on the tea pot,
They stand yakking till nine- each day it's the same,
Starting without a cuppa and a smoke is a mugs game.

See 'em sat on piles of grit and gravel-
It's no wonder it's a slow road they travel,
Even the softest of sedentary jobs has its trials;
Eventually they will sigh, rise and  pick at their piles.

Watching as their truck sinks on the rutted shoulder
Our once warm welcome to the road gang grows colder,
Barely has the diesel Digger warmed up than its left to idle
And off to their stop work meeting spot they shufflingly sidle.

On the Council owned berm* they do as they please,
Leant back on a tree- or in the Porta-Privy- all at ease,
The way they combine work and leisure is a sight to see;
See how they seamlessly blend brunch into afternoon tea?

On the rare occasion a Councillor drops by
You should see the sweat, dirt and bulldust fly,
But mostly this work-shy job lot have lost the urge,
Some contemplate digging in- but stay on the verge.

God and bitumen men work in mysterious ways,
But must it take a miracle and a month of Sundays?
And as time trickles, like treacle, through the hour glass,
They share a joke, take a toke, time a'wasted on the grass.

                    'A hard day's night on the work site'
*Berm- that strip of grass outside your house, owned  and 'maintained' by the Town Council that you wind up mowing- unless you want a mini-Serengeti springing up outside your fence.


I missed the anniversary of Elvis’ death in August; Time for a few late lines- my fullest sincere apologies, Big Guy.

Grill Happy.

Elvis had grown into the biggest Rock'n'Roll star the world had known,
Well, for years he'd been rolling remorselessly towards Twenty stone,
But at Forty Two- this will be hard to say without lowering the tone-
The Super Size Me Cheese Burger King tumbled from his throne.

But the King lives on-in song!!! Hear again all his Greasiest Hits!!! Don't Fry Daddy! 
All Choked Up! Love Me Tenders! Delicious Heinz! It's Chow Plus Cheddar! 
Fries Are Always On My Mind! Are You Carb-Loading Tonight?! Steak, Patty and Rissole! 
Swollen Heart! MacD's The Name! Crying In The Chipotle! A Little Less Constipation!
In The Crisco! And more, many more of the late Kings heart-stopping numbers!

‘Thang you very mush… Where’s lunch?’