Monthly Archives: November 2017

The Don speaks to Native Americans about heroism in his own unique well- rounded and thought-out way. Say what?

Write Off.

When Donald read out the speech we wrote
Did we hear, here and there, the odd bum note?
Don, now, we TOLD you-
Don’t stray from the auto-cue.
He doesn’t seem to heed, need or even want us,
And WE never wrote one word about Pocahontas.

We were looking at our copy of his speech as he read it,
If you agree with his words, please don’t give us the credit,
Should Don persist in being loose lipped
We might as well tear up the script.
Imagine Dons unscripted unrestrained conversations?
Free from common sense, boundarys or… reservations.

Dealing with the monolith (Public Works) that plans ‘improvements’ for us, the public, is no walk in the park- believe me.

Kicked To The Kerb.

I walked out with my keys and surveyed our road-coned street
And wondered- yet again- when these works will be complete,
A note on my windscreen informed me in no uncertain terms
The Council will fine me for parking over THEIR fine berms.

With contractors gear and silly diggers blocking my accessway
Where is a displaced irate rate-payer supposed to park, pray?

My observations show the Council work has been painfully slow,
NOW the Parking Department are swift to tell me where I can go,
So, if by some miracle a Council mower should ever come to pass
I’ll be more than happy to hop in the Holden and get off the grass.

Australia fall to Scotland in international rugby, but in his mature fashion Coach Cheika has words of reasoned explanation. He’s developing a certain pattern in his speech patterns.

Coach Class.

When it comes to his Wallabies Cheika is fiercely protective,
Their unlucky defeats bring on a stream of Coach’s invective,
Likeable Michael knows who to blame for all these defeats,
Touch judges and referees all cheat, he plaintively bleats.

One must feel sorry for the Wallabies on their flight home,
After Scotland, has Mike developed Asperger’s Syndrome?
For his solemnly silent team the non-stop flight is wearing,
Listening to Motormouth Michael’s non-stop swearing.

The obituary pages rarely raise a smile, but what strange travelers wait uncomfortably beside the Styx this week?

Gone On.

What a weird week this past week has been,
What an odd mob have departed the scene,
Chuckles Manson, David Cassidy and Malcolm Young,
Two gone too young, one well and truly unstrung.

Charles Manson goes, and good riddance. But to where does he go? That’s the burning question.

To A Well-Deserved Reward.

Charles Manson has finally shuffled off this mortal coil
And there’s mighty damn few who regret the loss,
But his arrival has made one hard working devil’s blood boil,
As irreverent as it sounds, Old Nick is ever so cross.

Decades ago, facing the chair, or a long life without parole
Charlie and the devil met, and an ungodly deal was done,
Now Chas has turned up his toes, and Satan awaits his soul-
He’ll wait till Hell freezes over, ‘coz Chuckie never had one.

The President comes back from meeting with some of the finest minds in the world and his first order of business is- a beastly business.

Blasted Conservation.

If you’re in the hunt for some good clean fun
Dig out your passport and grab your elephant gun,
Now, thanks to what Don has gone and said and done
You can blaze merrily away ‘neath the Zimbabwean sun.

Don has duly given his licence to a blood sport
And the NRA give him their wholehearted support,
It’s the product of a mutual disregard for logical thought,
But elephants are on the brink of being extinct, so time is short…

Fly direct to Zimbabwe
And land in festive and restive Harare,
Say you will pay handsomely to go on safari
(But better not say Grace or Robert Mugabe.)

Get over there before the climate here becomes too hot,
It just takes a little money and you can be a real big shot,
Some say big game hunting’s cold blooded killing , but it’s not,
But hurry, if you’re lucky you might even plug the last of the lot.

So take aim, squeeze your trigger, watch another fall,
Bringing down something so big makes a little man stand tall,
So bring back that brainless stuffed head, mount it on the wall;
Perhaps Dumbo Don has left us a perfect and lasting legacy after all?

Don and Vlad just passing the time of day at the Asian leaders meeting. A short and cordial meeting of the minds.

Yak Yak.

Donald and Vlad paused to exchange a greeting
At the Asian conflab, scarcely even a meeting,
Barely worth mentioning, or even repeating.

Just enough time taken by those two to put to rest
The insinuations of those who continue to protest
That red hands were all over the electoral contest.

A smile, a nod, a blink- or a wink?- a brief handshake,
It’s amazing how little time a Don done deal can take-
Some might say it’s one slick team those two make.

Why pursue this Russian fabrication when they have agreed
To be resolute that any investigation can’t hope to succeed?
Besides neither care to know where any trail might lead.

Now, with hand on heart, Donald can say say he’s truly relieved
That an ‘understanding’ with Vladimir has been achieved;
Surely the word of an ex-KGB Colonel can be believed?

Paddles (the cat) and Gareth Morgan (the ass.) Paddles, the NZ Prime Ministers cat has been run over. Gareth, a wannabe politician, HATES cats, feral or otherwise. So he showed no sympathy, perhaps brutally so.

Rich Reward.

Farewell Paddles, you short lived cat,
Only grumpy Gareth takes much joy in that;
Not for Morgan a moments diplomatic pause,
No, out comes his dogma, out come the claws.

No thought of how those words stung.

When Gareth’s time on this mortal coil ends
And up towards Heaven he (hopefully) ascends,
Will he see Paddles lounging atop the Pearly Gates?
How to explain to St Pete cats are one of his pet hates?

Say, Gareth, cat got your tongue?

More with a sigh rather than a scream of frustration after yet another assault on the senses.

Once More, With Feeling.

This week it’s been in a dusty little Texas town,
There half a congregation were gunned down,
Another week, another maniac with a gun,
And next week there will be another one.

Our betters wring their hands once more,
Much like last week, and the week before,
Another abomination, another crazy crime,
But DON’T mention gun control at this sad time.

Soon in Sutherland Springs they’ll bury their dead,
A stirring never-to-be-forgotten speech will be read,
But thinking a lesson’s been learned would be a mistake-
Not with Freedom and a high-powered Amendment at stake.

Our fine leader wears a face wreathed in sadness
But he shows no will or want to rein in the madness,
So, next week when some gung-ho gun nut goes insane
We’ll send our condolences and hopes and prayers- again.

A tale of mystery and imagination, and perhaps, medical misadventure? Lately truth is stranger than fiction though.

Serious As A Heart Attack.

Ashen faced Don was devastated to hear
His once ‘excellent guy’, his pal Papadopolous
Had not stayed shtum, he had spoken
To the FBI, and Bob, and out of turn;
This had left Don f… furiously cross,
And Damn near heart-broken.

Two things had ‘conspired’
To cause a tiny cardiac infraction;
George, that little bottom-feeding sucker
Had been tapped by the FBI, but had he been wired?
Had there been talk of an overseas bank transaction?
Cause enough for both heart flutter and sphincter pucker?

No, there was no heart attack that I know of. You gotta have one, for a start.