There are times, times when Nature calls
When on the verge but the urge stalls;
After arriving white-knuckled,
Zipping down, belt unbuckled,
Then taking your seat with indecent haste
You find yourself sat, with time to waste.
What a tedious place to be confined,
In a silent cubicle, in a bind.
But no poet minds being ‘unavoidably detained,’
Sitting, pondering, mind wandering unrestrained,
I refuse to sit idly by,
I’ve pen and paper, triple ply…
Now my tale is told, and in reasonable rhyme,
A half-decent job, given the constraints of time.
It’s a bit slap-dash, it won’t win any poetry prize
But this gutsy effort still brings tears to my eyes.
(This is as close to the edge of bad taste as I tread. And who wants to tread any deeper?)
Don’s dishing out presidential pardons willy-nilly,
Forgiving old felonious friends at will and at whim,
But mention faithful old Mueller and Don grows chilly-
Chances of Don forgiving Bob are infinitesimally slim.
Questions of his hot Stormy affair are also met frostily
As his ardour and memories of her mammaries begin to dim,
So Don won’t dismiss Ms Kardashians request as frivolously silly,
Though part of the deal will be having to twerk for it, Kim.
What a cruel and tragic tale the floor supervisor had to tell;
There’ll be no overtime in this sweatshop for quite a spell;
Poor Bob Cratchit choked back the tears and his face fell,
Back to breadcrusts and gruel for Tiny Tim and Little Nell.
The poor hard done-by hounded witch-hunted president
is grateful his big-shot New York shyster lawyer’s so prescient,
Rudy completely agrees with what Don’s said all along-
The president, or at least this one, can do no wrong.
There’s only one verdict that’s reachable,
This presidents word is unimpeachable.
Should some scandal appear wherin Don might be involved
Don can be pardoned by the president, and problem absolved!
It matters not one jot what evidence Mueller eventually presents,
Giuliani’s ‘Get Out Of Jail’ card gives his client a rock-solid defence.
God knows its a delusion to think he’ll ever resign
Now Don knows to err is human, to forgive, divine.
Jesus told Preacher Jesse Duplantis to get
A fifty-four million dollar Falcon jet,
Jesse wants it to spread Gods word
But that Falcon’s one big flipping bird.
So Jess kneels humbly down and makes his pitch plea
Prays to his poor congregation to contribute, monetarily,
Jesse will all too gladly take you- by the hand,
Even kiss your cheek should you give ten grand.
‘Twill enrich your future prospects in the eyes of the Lord,
But it is a promise, at present, all too few can afford
When Jess possessed three other jets in which to sally forth
By what God given right has he got to go buy a fourth?