Working through life’s surprising ups and downs, in a manner of speaking. Sadly, true story.

All (Out Of) Sorts.

I am never going to consume licorice ever again;
That sweet Dutch treat I can nevermore entertain,
Last night’s pack of All Sorts, now crumpled cellophane
Leaving me with cold sweats and cramping stomach pain.

I am never going to resume consuming licorice again,
This morning I daren’t stray far from my favoured domain,
My private retreat of stainless steel, white tiles and porcelain,
Were my cubicle further away I fear I couldn’t bear the strain.

I repeat, I’m never going to consume licorice again-
Every step’s a gamble between pot-luck and methane,
Now my appetite for Twizzlers I truly cannot contain,
Gimmie Montezumas Revenge and I won’t complain.

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‘Tis a dark, even a black day for the most devoted devout and stout Irish sports fan dis sad day. Commiserations are all I can offer. So sorry. (All Blacks 46 Ireland 14 )

The Cup Runneth, Over.

In public houses up and down the Emerald Isle
There’s many a jar of good Guinness been drunk,
But there’s little good cheer, no, there’s nary a smile,
Only tears in the beer on seeing Cup dreams being sunk.

Shlock mock horror! That old classic, ‘The Bride of Frankenstein’ re-reviewed. Or: Romance really is dead.

Dr Frankenstein could no longer pretend;
His experiments had come to a dead end,
He railed at the thunderstorm, he cursed his luck
Till came a puff of smoke as a lightning bolt struck.

Slowly from the slab his prized creature rose,
In those coal black eyes something darkly glows,
There’s a sad recognition that he is one butt-ugly soul,
A melange of random bits and pieces making up a whole.

He saw he looked like a reject from the Twilight Zone,
He had no wish to spend his second life all on his own,
He gently sat the the Doc down, told him what was on his mind,
Strongly impressing on him how he felt being but one of a kind.

The monster requested the Doc make him a mate,
Toss in a few X chromosomes into the ol’ template,
Reluctantly, the Doctor took up needle and thread-
His second stitch-up left his first darn effort for dead!

For the good Doctor had learnt a great deal,
Now he could spend time on aesthetic appeal,
That original prototype did look desperately grim,
Rugged and rough-hewn would best describe him.

Working both night and day-
All bloody work and no play-
In a week he’d put her together-
Time to wait- for stormy weather.

Finally came a thunderous storm,
Lightning lit her wondrous form,
Impatiently the monster waited
As his beauty became animated.

The Doc had fashioned her such a pretty face,
The creature felt his second-hand heart race,
And his beastly heart was completely captured,
The Docs fine body of work left him enraptured.

But his bride-to-be was less than impressed,
She saw him and nearly had a cardiac arrest,
From her sweet lips came a long ululating scream;
The Doctor knew they’d never make a dream team.

After hearing her shrill dismissive shriek
The monster flounces off in a fit of pique,
How that poor forsaken brutes broken heart aches,
And all the Doc says is ‘oh well, we all make mistakes.’

It’s another sad goodbye and farewell. There will be no more encores for Ginger Baker, the hot-headed red-headed drumming genius of Cream.

No Fitting Fiery Farewell?

I woke up and heard the bad news today,
Ginger Baker has gently and quietly gone on his way,
‘Not how I thought he’d go,’ some might say,
Eric and Jack expected he’d go down still blazing away.

President Trump’s call to the President of the Ukraine- the subtle art of getting his message across.

Phoney Friends.

For tweet natured Donald a new day is dawning,
Things are heating up, and not due to global warming,
Talk of impeachment is ruining his peach of a morning,
On the political horizon dark storm clouds are forming.

Don complains those nasty Democrats are to blame
For badgering the poor law a’biden President again,
Take his word for it, there’s nothing true to their claim,
If you don’t believe him, ask the President of the Ukraine.

Mr Zelensky will clearly unconditionally and categorically state
No Presidential pressure was exerted, no Don deal;s were made-
And Dons character is not just good, its unimpeachably great-
Now that $400 million in military aid has been promptly paid.

Premier League; Frustrations from a foaming-at-the-mouth fan. And no, not a Wolves one!

Again, Palace Presents…

Wolverhampton wandered on to Selhurst Park,
For the Black country boys the future looked dark,
One place away from propping the Premiership up,
Hoping for a goalless draw or for Palace to slip up.

The past has shown
Slip ups aren’t unknown.

The doughty Palace team score, and then on the hour
A Wolves player wrestles himself into an early shower,
Surely for Palace this must mean game, set and match?
Ten man whimpering Wolves will be easy to dispatch.

The referee decides, at last
To give this game a final blast…

Of course, in that last lingering moment Wolves whip in a cross,
They score, and to this Palace fan the draw feels more like a loss,
The way my Eagles cough up points would make a parrot sick;
The reason, last day of the season my nails are down to the quick.

September 19th staggers along again. Birthdays can take on a bittersweet quality after the party’s over.

Sup, Bro?

All things must pass;
Still, lets raise a glass
To gone-too-soon Chet,
No, not forgotten just yet.

He’d not want us to cry,
He’d rather see a dry eye,
He was all about fun and laughs
And his life was never lived by halves.

Now, if he were standing here
He’d say ‘Cheers’ and sink his beer,
So here’s to a fine uncle and big brother,
And, thinking of Chet, who’s keen on another?