Donald Trump, President of World-Wide Real Estate, looks around for an investment. Look out Greenland!

Real Estate Buffoon.

Donald thunked ‘wouldn’t it be great
To make Greenland the fifty-first state?’
For Don this expensive venture holds great appeal-
And Trump could bank on Treasury to finance his deal.

To Donald, something about this place feels right,
Yes, it is a particularly strategically important military site,
But imagine, Dons own snow-white impenetrable garrison?
Suddenly Puerto Rico’s importance pales in comparison.

It would be his greatest deal, save for one small detail;
Those damn Danes say their territory is NOT for sale,
Don looks jealously at those rolling fields of green,
What a great private golf resort it could’ve been.

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Another winning writers contest comes and goes. Just what makes for a funny submission? Who knows? (Not bitter or twisted, just befuddled.)

Nolo Contendere.

Checked my E-mails, same old dull routine,
Then a new missive lights my dull grey screen,
News from a competition entered loooong ago,
Click ‘open’, oh, but don’t get my hopes up though.

I’ve so hoped for the best before,
And I’d be disappointed once more.

Again, rejection, painful but not unexpected,
Again my select name amongst the unselected,
But after a sigh, a roll of the eyes and a rueful smile
I thought I’d read what wonders had topped the pile.

Perhaps, judging by the mood I was in
I shouldn’t judge- but where can I begin?

One thing required in a humourous poem contest
Is content that leaves one laughing, not depressed,
I’ll agree it is the good judges call to be fair, firm and tough
And I’ll allow my work this year- and hers- ain’t good enough.

Jeffrey Epstein won’t have his day in court. His day is done. How to deal and understand with his tragic passing?

Perverting Justice.

They hauled poor cold Epstein from his cell,
Somehow Jeff had expired there- oh well,
The upside- he’s not looking at more jail,
The downside- he’s looking dead as a doornail.

No watching while his whopping legal bill enlarges
As his wily lawyers fight his childish charges,
No more paying for a ‘get out of jail’ card,’
Now his long-term future’s in the boneyard.

No more wondering throughout the trial
If he’ll be found a two-time paedophile,
Now he has no reason to wonder-
The reason being, he’s six feet under.

He might have been an amoral beast
But all that’s ceased since he’s… deceased,
Some cry blue murder, some say suicide
But all agree he wound up dead inside.

Seeing too many old movies means it’s time to have a stab at a gripping old ripping yarn.

Low Ebb.

Back in the bad old days, in Old London Town
A mist sprung up, a heavy fog rolled down,
As the good God-fearing Victorian folk slept
Into seedy Whitechapel that damned fog crept.

At the end of a dark dank Dockside alleyway
A lady of the night decided she’d call it a day,
It had been a profitable night for an enterprising maid;
But there’s no profit being alone in the dark, in her trade.

She headed for home with bone weary tread,
After a night on her back she longed for her bed,
But she was mistaken to think she was all alone,
In the fog muffled footsteps echoed her own.

In the confines of Bucks Close the fog thickened,
As those steps sped up her heart-beat quickened,
From her trembling lips her breath came wreathing,
Then, on her neck she felt a hot and heavy breathing.

For a girl who regularly walked the street
This was no man she had wished to meet,
He seized his lapels, opened his greatcoat wide
And the size of his weapon left her terrified…

No, this was no ordinary flasher,
Yes, this was the Docklands slasher!
In a flash her days (and nights) were done,
Then ’twas the Rippers time to cut and run.

Down towards the Thames he blindly ran,
Washing his hands of the crime being the plan,
But the infernal fog hid the embankment railing
And into the dirty old river the Ripper went sailing.

Weighed down by a voluminous greatcoat
Jack the Dipper struggled vainly to stay afloat,
He and his cries for assistance were lost in the mist,
And so the Ripper himself wound up last on his list.

Though the man(iac) in question has long gone
The myth and mystery of his identity lingers on,
The name of the Ripper no-one can provide
All known remains, lost to time, and to tide.

We knew it would happen again, and it did. But so soon? Mr President, its time for a little control. Please?

Mad Dog Days.

They’re still shivering in the aisles down at old El Paso
Though it’s been a lazy slow cookin’ Southern hazy crazy afternoon,
There’s a similar smoky atmosphere at Peppers Bar up in Dayton, Ohio;
Let’s pray to God (or whoever) there’s a change in the weather- mighty soon.

The sorry tale of Stephen Kearney and the even sorrier Warriors league ‘team.’ Another woeful display, and no referees to blame this time. What a shame.fde

Toss In The Towel.

Poor Stephen Kearney, Warriors coach, he’s had it tough,
Dealing with myopic moronic inept referees is bad enough
But he has to try to coach Warriors who have ‘focus Issues,’
A team trait that’s had his many predecessors reach for the tissues.

The Canberra Raiders waltz in to the Warriors home town;
By half time our unlucky Warriors are already thirty points down,
The players wonder why Sweet-As Stevie Cuzzy Bro’s mood is foul-
Just ’cause the boys haven’t turned up he’s throwing in the towel.

They feel for Steve, but ‘Hey Bro, chill it’s just another Saturday,
Win or lose, we Warriors get well paid, even if we can’t, well… play,’
No wonder poor Steve looks lost, dismayed, distraught and distressed
That’s the attitude that has him clawing at his hair, and, soon, his chest,

This dispiriting woeful effort is the latest blow to the Warrior coaches pride,
Alas, poor Kearney, another aspiring coach whose spirit has just died,
It’s his lot to join that sorry lot of ex- Warriors coaches Stevies a broken man-
Well, Stephen, welcome to the club, you’re not the only broken-hearted ex-fan.