Monthly Archives: April 2019

The President sees Joe Biden throw his hat in the ring and turns on a bit of the old charm. Don just won’t respect his elders, cheeky impetuous youth that he is.

Kidult.

Don says he’s vibrant, strong and young,
He modestly stated this in his self -critique
Earlier this week.

To this childish delusion Don has long clung,
Yet most view our old boy as past his peak,
Practically, an antique.

Don has his guilt-edged golden tongue
Deeply, firmly wedged in his- cheek.
So to speak.

The Premier League Football Show! Drama, farce, heart-rending finales! Or a cheap slipshod Horror Show. Direct from Manchester, we present-

Dribbling On.

I’ve been reduced to tears with what I’ve just sadly seen,
A bad Shakespearean tragedy, played out on the big screen,
I saw a dull first act, then a direr second half, ay, but the rub
Was seeing City outperform United, down at our neutral pub.

How those happy blue-clad lads scoffed and laughed
As I sobbed in the shadows, hand clenched to my Draught,
To drown my sorrows it’s swig, swallow, belch- then repeat;
But not even Boddingtons can dull the pain of this bitter defeat.

I rewound the game in my mind, I compared the teams,
My United looked all clapped-out at the Theatre of Dreams,
Especially statuesque Pogba, devoid of emotion- or motion;
The only thing to get him goin’ would be some Sennapod potion.

Our offence seemed content to quietly sit back
Hoping indolence would be the best form of attack,
The City midfield were all fleet of foot and quick of mind,
Ours gave chase, ran all over the place, always two feet behind.

But our backline stood tall and strong, stout and true,
They and the keeper conspired to keep out all- but two;
So all I can do is put on a smile and say ‘the best team won,’
I love Old Trafford, but Gunnar, there’s rebuildin’ to be done.

Walking woozily to the bar I recall when we were Best,
Now the froth has gone, up at the top are teams I detest,
It’s with tears in my beer I cry ‘Christ, how can life be so cruel?’
God above, my choice for Champion is down to City or Liverpool.

Seasons come and go, but winter is the only one that, depressingly, doesn’t go fast enough.

Things Are Picking Up At Walgreens.

We were out for a last Fall sunny Sunday drive-
The forecast says a Winter blast is due to arrive,
As around the picturesque river road we wended
It was plain to see our long Indian Summer had ended.

In the breeze the golden leaves were autumnally falling,
An ill wind was coming, a most unwelcome cold calling,
Soon it would be months of dark depressing grey days,
Soon my summery smile would be impossible to raise.

The chill of Winter, when good humour hibernates,
When goodwill towards ones good fellows dissipates,
Winter, the time of running noses and lingering coughs,
When there’s more downs than ups, less peaks than troughs.

But

On gloomy winter days when you cannot face yourself
Help is at hand, up in the medicine cabinet, top shelf,
Push aside the Vicks, the Sudafed, the razor, so keen,
And all is happiness and light, thanks to… Fluoxetine!

Manchester United V Everton; A tough to swallow result for us poor Devils.

Red-eyed And Blue. (Sorry Wilco, I appropriated your title.)

Manchester United versus Everton?
The trip to Goodison should be a good one;
This is one Scouse team the Devils can beat,
Ah, downing those Toffees will taste sooo sweet.

But the game did not go United or Ole’s way,
The Reds ‘play’ left Ole lookin’ old and grey,
This four goal loss leaves poor Ole ashen faced
And Red faced Mancunians with a bitter taste.

 

Savoring the Easter holidays, not hungering to return to work just yet. Yes, the sweet bliss of having time with the family. Such a treat!

Eggs Over Easy At Easter.

It’s our old and loved Easter family tradition,
It’s followed with an almost religious conviction,
We’ll gather round the table in a reverential hush
And look forward to a chocolate charged sugar rush.

There the eggs lay, dark, inviting;
Or the white rabbit, ready for biting.

Every member has an egg that suits them best,
Last year, I found my Reese’s egg too rich to digest,
This year I’m making heavy going of my marshmallow
Finding my annual sweet treat’s become a trial to swallow.

As it uneasily lies there, congealing
I’m bound to say I prefer a hollow feeling.

Having time off at Easter allows one to ponder the imponderables of this world. Time to get damn well creative!

Scintilla Of Truth.

There’s a tale to tell behind your Easter holiday,
So linger a moment, pull up a pew and listen, pray,
They say Jesus died for our sins, hung up on a cross-
But on the instructions of his Godfather boss?

Apparently, once a sinfully high price was paid
Into a stone cold cave the good Son was laid,
He was dead to rights, a good Roman doctor swore,
But wait- there’s more of this fantastical tale in store.

The script sure doesn’t tail off to the dead end one expects;
There’s life in the old crypt, according to the ancient texts;
Come Sunday, Christ’s up and kicking, would you believe?
Simply a bloody miracle, according to the blessedly naive.

So, thank God (and His offspring) for making the sacrifice
But can this damned fellow follow Your books good advice?
Well, again this Easter, back on a hard bench I’ll be found,
Down at the Crown, sinning, getting in another round.

Notre Dame, you’ll be the ruination of me. Consider this a rather un-PC silly and frivolous french folly.

Merde Feu.

What a damnable shame,
Seeing grand old Notre Dame
Fired up and aflame.

Due to the fire
The ol’ Dame does require
A bigger better spire.

When the roof fell
It left Gods glorious citadel
Blazing like merry Hell.

With the roofs falling
The conflagration became, frankly appalling,
For the French, galling.

Above the gathering crowd
Arose a bitter Gauloises cloud-
Smoking oughtn’t be allowed.

One man, eyes a’stinging,
Amongst klaxons blaring, bells a’ringing,
Stands hunched, hands a’wringing.