Getting close to the neighbours; Maybe too close for comfort though.

Hot Property.

This ol' familiar neighbourhood is a'changing fast,
The ol' solid landmarks quickly becoming a part of the past,
This ol' suburb was once squalid blue-collar working class,
This ol' place was home then, to us on the bones of our ass.

Times were once when passing locals would all stop and meet,
Share a smoke, hang out, have a chat on the corner of our street,
One place where all Gods diverse children got on like a house afire, 
On Community Corner, where Nikes hang from the telephone wire.

What sights we were wont to see we didn't want to see...
The shady deals done 'neath the dark oaks spreading canopy;
See the early morning hoodie guys, shrinking from the light?
Passing on favours to the street gals returning after a hard night?

But lately I've noticed most of the ol' gang have gone,
As the rents went up- bless 'em- they too've moved on,
And this low locale which was once way too close to town
Is lookin' up, so much investors are rushing in to tear it down.

At first the ol' rundown villas were cheaply acquirable,
Swiftly the ol' slum area seems to have become desirable,
But nowadays most hereabouts have rumbled their game-
It's 'knock one down, then build ten- and all the same.'

First, the best ol' house on the block went up for sale,
A turreted faded Victorian, but picture perfect in every detail,
The old guy who'd owned it could never have guessed
That the new owner would stoop to doing his level best.

This morning I see ol' Tom Cobleigh is selling out, and all,
See the bright 'For Sale' sign, ten foot long, six feet tall?
See the Builders van stop smokily in a screech of brakes?
See the urgent call to one of his developing mates he makes?

Already I can see, strolling by with tear filled eye
They're building three-story eyesores to blot out the sky,
And the shit house right next door has just been sold,
I fear I'll be be living in darkness, and my blood runs cold.

Now the wise Council wants to choke back urban sprawl
Not a day goes by that some realtor don't speculatively call,
They all finally offer a pretty penny to get hold of our place-
But first every twisted one of 'em will lie straight to your face.

Yes, all things must change, be they for bad or good,
Though change feels strange in this old crime neighbourhood,
See, another sharp-dressed man puts the Porsche in 'Park,'
To hungrily prowl the streets, like the proverbial land shark.

Now we say to all who come knocking... 'have a good day,'
For this here's our 'umble home and here we aim to stay, 
Or perhaps 'tis high time for us to stick up our own sign?
'Kindly shove your purchase offer where the sun don't shine.'

'So once we knock it down, we can put up 20 boxes apartments in its place.'


Poor Donald Trump, feeling so badly dealt to: If only he could have won over those losers…

Complete Don-lie-ability.

Loudly ex-President Trump proclaims 'it's not Right or fair'
That anyone should pry into his silly lil' January Sixth affair,
So, he may have told a few close friends it was time to fight?
And they may have left the Capitol lookin' like a bomb site...
It's hard to believe he, the Rightful leader of the United States
Must submit to the uncomfortable probing Democracy dictates.

All Don wanted was to get Mike Pence to illegally declare a
Few million Rep votes had been counted as Dem ones in error,
If only Don's grip on Mike's gonads neck had been tighter
Don would be the hard Rights hero, not its riotous inciter,
'Merica would've lost Democracy- but isn't Don's loss greater?
Who needs Democrats when given a Great Republican Dictator?

‘Lookin’ mighty Right to me, El Presidente. Sir!’


That old saying ‘cheats never prosper’ raises its ugly head again.

Mr Dee's Misdeeds.

Michael has always been a bit of a Jack the Lad,
Over all the years I have never met Mike's like,
Mike has never been content with what he had
Until finally his wife had had enough of Mike.

Time and again Mike had broken her trust,
The times he'd told her of his deep remorse,
That he would love her exclusively if she could just
Wait for a month for the penicillin to run its course.

Once more he'd returned home 'truly contrite,'
She told him, as usual, this was his last chance,
And, to his credit, he remained true- for a fortnight
Before giving up his hard work and going freelance.

He slunk home- to be handed divorce proceedings:
As his neighbours we felt sorry for our flawed friend,
Wife Patsy stonily remained immune to his pleadings,
To Mike, our welcome and a sofa we sillily did extend.

Hey, he needed a good couple with a cheap place to stay,
He gave me a manly embrace, pecked my wife's cheek,
Tearily told us ours was a debt he could never repay
Then asked if we could let his rent slide till next week?

So, next week came, and went, and then so did the next,
We couldn't say 'the rent's late' if it's never been paid,
But Mike was not our boarder, not in the usual context-
Every night he's down the pub, in the ear of the barmaid.

Then, in a moment of drunkenness weakness his wife called,
Told us, in a sweetly Shiraz slurred voice, Mike was missed,
I hawed 'he's unavailable' but his Patsy wouldn't be forestalled,
When I admitted he was down at the pub, was she PISSED!

'Twas well after closing time when Mike returned
His tie awry and a roguish smile lingering on his lips,
Patsy's anger at his peccadillos left him unconcerned
Now that the hot barmaid at the Inn was taking his tips.

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

But when the barmaid came a'knocking on our door
With an Antarctic look in her eye, face hotly aglow
Mike was off out the window, oh, he knew he score,
Leaving us to face the wrath only the knocked-up know.

Now the sly dog hoped to fix all the vows he'd broken,
So easily he abandoned the roof we'd put over his head,
Now he honed up on sorry apologies, oh so glibly spoken,
Once weaselly words easily drew a silly wife back to his bed. 

But all his heartfelt calls to his sweetheart were to no avail,
Never before had Patsy not swallowed Mike's honeyed tones,
This came as a blow to the balls ego of the cocky Alpha male-
And no quick one at the Inn, with the barmaid cursing his bones.

Eventually Mike's family and few friends sought an intervention,
A tally-up of all his comings and goings left even Mike surprised,
That Patsy had forgiven so much was beyond comprehension
Especially when she had first seen all his shortcomings realised.

Oh, but this time there was no second chance for Gods gift,
This last time Patsy's hard lesson had finally been taught,
This time there could be no healing of the irreparable rift,
So divorce proceedings and extra child support were sought.

Now when poor Mike is up its to work six eighteen-hour days,
Nights find him laid up in bed, desiring nothing but blessed rest,
Now Mike simply can't make ends meet, and forget 'bout a raise,
The only bulge in his pants is his wallet, and that's hard pressed.

               'Lover boy- this is your wake-up call.'

(On re-reading this a fair few of my young friends, back in the day, seemed to be fated (and fertile enough) to have started a family younger than they would have reasonably expected. I guess some were lucky, some were not, and one or two of us good Boy Scouts learned to come prepared?)


Boris Johnson- still telling it like it isn’t.

Trotting Out The Twisted Pig Tales.

Still Boris Johnson keeps on clinging on,
It's a high wire he's sweatily swinging on,
It's quite the parlous position he is in;
Why or whoever could be the reason?

He has apologised for the crass behaviour,
He's cravenly asked Sue to do him a favour,
Even gone where a Johnson rarely ventures-
He's had to front up to his lowly back benchers.

This time, he swears, the lesson has truly stuck,
This time, he hopes, with an ounce of dumb luck
Just enough fools will believe he is rightly contrite-
And that's worth celebrating come Friday night.

For apologies from Number 10 are ten a penny-
So what's another broken promise, after so many?
Lessons learned from Public School still ring true,
'If you believe a word Boris says- more fool you.'

It's not as if Boris has seen a sign from on High,
That there are consequences for retelling a lie,
And people may well call Bo the consummate liar
But it matters not a jot till his pantaloons catch fire.

The Left wing's working to toss him out of the joint-
No need for mutineers to Rightly belabour the point.
Boris does not appreciate criticism from his betters,
He needs to survive all those no-confidence letters.

So Bo hopes to navigate his way past Partygate,
To again scoff caviar canapés off of a silver plate,
A carafe of Cabernet slugged back from a pint glass;
Don't believe anything emitted by that windbag ass.


Somehow slick-as-a-greased-pig Bo has survived the cut,
His thick-as pigshi pals all mucked in to save his sorry butt,
So he's putting on a Party for the loyal swine who saved his bacon,
They can stomach his pisswater and pork pies? I'd put the stake in. 

'The Boris Johnson patented and well-practiced thumbs-up .'


The view from the top of the Royal balcony must get dizzying at times. Or so one wonders.

Smiling Through The Jubilee.

Seventy years she's sat on the throne
And still Mizz Liz refuses to stand down,
Poor patient Prince Chuck has always known
Mum won't willingly deign to hand him her crown.

The crusty ol' crown has lost its sheen,
The ol' Royal family has started to unravel,
All this bitching and bickering behind the Queen;
Who told Harry and Meg 'it's time for sex and travel?'*

They're relegated to the second pew,
Tucked away even behind Chuck's consort,
Their poor American Reality Show, in her dim view
Proves class walks out the door when cash runs short.

Things have changed since back in the day-
If a Princess played up the Press weren't alerted,
Skeletons emerging out of the closet- fast locked away,
Allegations about a randy Prince rarely (barely?) asserted.

Supporting her Church for seventy long years
Sure as hell is beginning to grate on Her Majesty,
Upholding the Faith brings forth less joy than tears;
All her genuflecting is causing her Housemaids Knee.

Her seventy year regime won't be ever repeated,
Seventy years she's kept ties on the Windsor knot;
She won't be retiring till her work to rule is completed,
Then Ma'am can look down on her happy family. Or not.

*Or, in the parlance of the common 
people this advice is roughly shortened
to 'f~<k off.'

‘Happy families- they’re all relative.’


Depp v Heard; When winning brings out the losers.

Your Biggest Fan.

So Johnny Dee has been judged defamed.
Now, at long last, can we end this tawdry affair?
But don't the names heaped on she who must be blamed
Sound cruel, excessive and kinda grossly unfair?

The judge saw 'em both at their worst
As they left each others reps in tatters,
Now Depp is cheered and Ms. Heard cursed;
Social Media's judgment, all that matters.

Sure, the popular winning smiling gentleman's
Lawyers have so much for which to be grateful,
But must Johnny's frenzied foam-flecked mental fans
Be heard to be so nasty, so vile and ever so hateful?

‘Vitriol is key.’


How can we fail to progress with people of such selfless character and calibre governing us?

Holding My Piece.

I'm a staunch red-blooded Second Amendment defender,
That Right is a Right I solemnly swear I'll never surrender,
Though I do sometimes wonder if morally I've lost my way
Any scruples fly in the face of my kickback from the NRA.

On that rare day, in the wake of another mass shootout
I put on my best sad pious face and lay my black suit out,
Clasp hands and pray for the souls of the sadly departed;
Though lately I'm well practiced at looking broken hearted.

I'll happily blame some loony lone gunman, patently insane-
It's a rationale I've trotted out patiently time and time again,
So why get so mad If I coldly kill your latest Gun Control Bill?
If I don't take the NRA's cash inducement another bastard will.

Some may say I'm silently aiding and abetting a mortal sin
While offering up thoughts and prayers to the bereaved kin,
Hey, but for the likes of me this crazy ol' world keeps a'turning-
And there's this deep hole in my soul  pocket that keeps a'burning.

Once the funeral's done- and they're gettin' uncomfortable, I confess-
I'm right back to the business of gun control- no, not more, but less!
For my cronies and I toil tirelessly away for the NRA, working hellbent
Convening down at our Club, all in the interest of those we represent.

Our business is all to do with improving shooting on the golf course,
It's this kind of business our Right-thinking sponsor can endorse,
And whether it's rounds out on the golf course or the rifle range
So long as we keep getting paid our dues nothing will change.

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

The NRA aims to free you to freely roam 'round this grand old land
Armed to the teeth, like Rambo, an AR15 propped in either hand, 
No, no; no; know all denials of gun rights the NRA roundly rejects,
But they aren't unbalanced enough to deny your donation checks.  

                                     'Now, who's red-handed?'


Your first car; who doesn’t fondly recall that first taste of freedom?(Gotta say I know a couple who still love the ol’ Love Bug.)

Riding Shotgun.

Straight shootin' A student Jim and cheerleader Jane-
What winning members of the student body they made,
Jane had forsaken dumb jocks for a guy with a big brain
Since most football heroes cain't pass out of seventh grade.

Sat at the stop-light, newly licensed, in his wheezy Bug so humble
Jim 'n' Jane were left in the dust of a 'Vette as the driver floored it,
Beside her, seeing her eyes and ears followed that lusty V8 rumble
Jim swore he'd have her riding in one, as soon as he could afford it.

So pure and innocent the two had had to remain,
Under Jane's Father's roof his word must be obeyed,
To express love physically, all but impossible to entertain;
Jane's Double-Wide stay-at-home Dad proved hard to evade.

Pop was a party-pooping buzz-killing prissy Budwies-ass scumball-
Now, free to roam 'round Freemount County how quick they explored it,
Zipping down to the Drive-In, after lengthy promises and a quick fumble
Jane felt found rather than restrain his hot passion she'd rather reward it.

She pushed aside her Mothers puritan refrain,
Her promise rings lustre had long begun to fade,
Their growing passions proving too much to contain,
As he held her close to her heart- well, his hand strayed...

But snuggling in a Bug made Jane not passionately groan but grumble,
(The Microbus is VW's Passion Wagon, the front of a Bug fails the audit)
Smoochily they scooched into the back seat for the old traditional tumble,
Just once Jane considered telling Jim to release the clutch- then ignored it.

'Twas virgin territory for sweet Jane and her naive swain,
But James blundered on; 'faint heart never made fair maid,'
Rusted seat springs recoiled and buckled beneath the strain...
For both, coming close to claustrophobia a price happily paid.

In the hot and steamy dark back seat Jane didn't hear Jim sorrily mumble;
Jim had slipped up on his safety gear, but hadn't both so looked toward  it?
Four months on, hopes for Janes traditional white wedding began to crumble,
On the up-side, the flexibility required to love in a Bug deserves special plaudit.

And so, given the fullness of time, and a steady weight gain
It was growing evident more than College plans had been laid...
So 'twas, when before the Reverend stood the radiant rotund Jane
Behind Jim, Pop's shotgun's aim was Jim not escaping his escapade.

  'Love won't be confined: But the VW Bug was never designed to be a transport of delight.'


Our common domestic cat has a life of ease; maddening little bast- beast, but I can’t bring myself to say ‘a pet hate.’ Yet.

Curse Of The Cat People.

We own a gorgeous golden-ginger cat,
Oops, sorry, better let me rephrase that;
We, being the select ones who foot the bill
For the Temptation treats that must overspill
From the crystal bowl from which He eats his fill;
Oh, ain't we the lucky ones who he bends to his will?

But just think about the joy we're getting,
He accepts the need for his constant petting,
And all we must do is dumbly bow to his demands,
(Changeable as his fickle choice of cat food brands,)
And show willingness to instantly heed his commands;
Oh, we'd better, or he'll happily bite off our tender hands.

'Why does my manservant blow a gasket
if I do my business in the laundry basket?
I've given him my most magnanimous wink;
By now, he surely knows I don't stop to think;
What's steadily driving him to a morning drink?
Why must my pure natural motions raise a stink?'

For ten snoozy hours he asks for f- sod all,
Then, 'pon waking, to be at his beck and call,
Then to heed his winsome mewling at the door,
For the Prince's day starts prompt at half past four,
And His Royal invocation is not one we dare to ignore.
Yep, our Princeling has us wrapped 'round his little claw.

'I'm quite the curious cat, if I say so myself,
Jumped up to check out the knick-knack shelf,
So, a lifetime of precious souvenirs went flying?
An entire community of Delft figurines lay dying?
Hush now, as high up on sole display I purr, lying;
No point in looking at that crocked collection, crying.'

As the cold of winter comes creeping in
The Golden One has taken to sleeping in,
After dark- and wolfing down his can of Dine
There's one subject to which he's taken a shine,
That armchair he now claims- that's rightfully mine!
But what lowly peasant dare disturb our prized feline?

'Okay, so I have self-focus issues. Bite me.'

Our team leader, our inspirational Captain, Master and Commander- he was admirably suited tell us where to go.

Not A Prayer This Sunday.

Back in the bad old days I worked six nights a week
And so I couldn't pursue my top-class football dream,
So I played Sunday, where the substandard was weak,
But our church dodgers still made a decent drinkin team.

Then came an unholy Sunday I recall till this day,
We turned up imperiously in our Imperial Blue,
Burncastle would be the token opposition we'd put away,
But as we strutted out- in a sudden chill ill-wind blew.

Above, our bright blue sky took on a somber grey cast,
From the deep South storm clouds gathered balefully,
They banked up, then swept darkly in, cold and fast;
Short sleeved and shorts clad lads looked up palefully.

The sparse black and white scarfed 'Castle crowd
Looked sourly at us, then dourly up at the squall,
Then- a flash of lightning- a thunderclap LOUD!
From heaven, an antediluvian deluge began to fall.

The ref raised his arm, blew his whistle and play began,
The tempest fair whistled through me as I set off on a run,
Our technically gifted team played with panache and elan
But our game plan and hopes faded, like the dimming sun.

The Recreation Ground is no warm or welcoming place,
It's not green, it's not pristine, it's a rutted mud-filled field,
With the raw wind at my back, the sun hiding its fickle face? 
Running up a tab down at the Crown increasingly appealed.

So much for slick play full of feints, dribbles and stepovers,
Now the best we could hope for was to stay on our feet,
Not losing a boot was a feat worthy of 'Roy Of The Rover's,'
The weather levelled the field 'tween the low and the elite.

God, why say sun day if you overfill every Sunday with rain? 
Still, if we could not outskill 'em we could run around 'em,
We tipped 'n' ran, passed 'n' ran, ran and kicked on again,
Left gasping in our wake, our fluid feet all but drowned 'em. 

Our Captain roared his blue crew forward in wave after wave,
'Aye aye Sir!' And yet my cocksure confidence began to waver,
Every kick saw their 'keeper making another miraculous save,
On this ghastly Sunday good God was showing us no favour.

At the half-time whistle we drudged to the dressing sheds,
Our fresh-bought new bright blue kit now a shi uniform brown,
On the wooden benches we saturated, shaking puzzled heads,
Then the Captain stood up and gave us a right dressing down.

Never had I seen our noble Captain look so sorely pained,
Our Great Leader By Example made us all feel we be little,
As down upon us, his dripping team, his displeasure rained,
And none were spared his excoriating appraisal, nor spittle.

The ref blew on his blue hands, then for the last half to start,
The blue team looked on High, confident Good would prevail,
Were we not strong, long of limb, brave and stout of  heart?
But some felt a lapse of faith as we faced the incoming hail.

From that cursed moment, whatever could go wrong, did;
My best mate Mike, our best dribbler, stomped on the ball,
Oh, hear our Cap'n, rock of our defence, now almost rabid,
Standing firm as all about him could but slip and pratt-fall.

And what a bucketful of possession our damned team had-
I- I must've had a hatful of chances to stick one in the net-
But try as I may my aim was off a tad (sorry Skip, my bad!)
I daren't find the eye of my Cap'n; no wish to see him upset.

Then came the dreaded moment, his our calamitous mistake,
The ball wibble-wobbled off a stray boot, fell to one of Them,
Our two defenders, stuck in the mud- such an unlucky break,
Yet our Cap'n stood firm, calm and cool 'mongst the mayhem.

Their goal-bound striker gave the slippery ball a heavy touch,
The ball slithered towards the one to whom we're all beholden,
Our hero, our Captain, the lauded oracle we listen to too so much 
                            but just before he swore...silence was golden. 

Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, down the sleet slashed,
Our slip-shod Captain lay flat on his back, feet up in the air,
After the heavy ball that lucky Burncastle lad lightly splashed
And blasted the ball in our goal, off of our Cap'ns ample rear.

...There are some days, some games you cain't never win...
Losing by the odd goal, sat in the gloomy shed, glum, numb...
But nowadays Mike and I can still raise a pint and a silly grin
Then laugh like drains recalling the goal scored by the big bum. 

Then comes the sobering moment; aye, then the laughter dies;
Our loquacious leader had left us, without a word, so to speak,
He felt he had lost face in front of his team, at least in his eyes-
Silently he'd limped away, swiping an eye, rubbing a red cheek. 

And since our Captain has cast himself away
Still we meet, every blessed Sunday afternoon,
Have a tot in salute to our lost cap'n, and pray,
'Bon Voyage, safe return,' but never too soon. 

‘That shi- sinking feeling.’