Monthly Archives: July 2019

Two more shootings in the great States; There’s a certain sense of inevitability and deja vu going on. Yet again.

Automatic Response.

The good and noble NRA care, they care a lot
When some poor innocent schmuck gets shot,
Praying, as the priest’s administering the last rites,
Praying this won’t impact on their gun-totin’ rights.

Another shooting in the great States…oh, how hum-drum,
What once left me sadly speechless now leaves me numb,
This week Brownsville’s the place where the hot shots went ballistic,
Now, like the NRA, I see this tragedy as just another sad statistic.

Like the NRA, I now simply shrug, and move on,
It’s a crying shame but my innocence has gone,
I’ve hardened my heart, I may be losing my soul,
But pray I’ll never become a card-carrying NRA asshole.



Presidents Don and Macron once toasted each other, but now the sweetness is fading from their relationship. Sad! Oh well, c’est la vie.

Tariffic, Don.

Where’s the love and the beautiful bromance gone?
That fabulous friendship between President Don
And his ex-best bro and buddy President Macron?
Soured, like the French wine Don slaps his punitive tariffs on.

Now those long manly handshakes that left Don red-faced?
Those kisses ‘pon the cheeks that Don enthusiastically embraced?
Macrons belief in civility and cordial relationships has been misplaced,
Don hates the look of French wine now- but hasn’t he always lacked taste?



Boris strolls in to 10 Downing Street and Theresa hands the chalice on to Boris. Well, sup up, enjoy the sweet taste, tousle-headed one.

Behind The Black Door.

As Tess’s tenure at Number 1O comes to a close
It’s ta-ta to our failed frazzled fading English rose,
Slowly down Downing Streets steps she grudgingly goes,
Then up steps blow-hard Boris, striking his grinning pose.

After passing ‘neath Boris’s victorious sneer
Tess turns, takes a look back shedding ‘nary a tear,
Theresa suppresses the smile that strives to appear;
One grateful Briton, glad to be gettin’ the hell outta here.

Outside the door where she’d once stood, stammering,
Boris is the boy for whom all the Brexiteers are clamouring;
Tess knows after six months of political Sturm Und Drangering
Boris will be beside himself, behind the door, getting a hammering.



Fifty years and billions of bucks ago we went boldly forth, shootin’ for the moon. Now we can look up and say ‘been there, done that.’

Twinkle In The Sky.

It was fifty years ago on this auspicious day
Neil Armstrong had these prophetic words to say,
‘One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,’
Before stepping out to see what in Heaven he might find.

Will there be diamonds, just lying around?
Will there be gold, or the good oil underground?
A planet full of platinum- or plutonium- ours to take?
Some star-spangled silver to make into a lunar keepsake?

And what worldly wonders the brave spaceman saw;
Just rocks and dust, dust and rocks, rocks by the score,
Dutifully into the sample satchel Neil tossed in the rubble;
A dumb bag of rocks costing all this time, travel and trouble.

See that tiny twinkle, fading on the moons crust?
Fifty years on Apollo 11 sits, forever gathering dust,
Back on Earth NASA scientists say it has all been worth it;
Pity NASA’s accountants, they’re still struggling to unearth it.



New Zealand lose to England in the Cricket World Cup. NZs captain Kane is a fine example of accepting the bitter pill of defeat. Myself? Altogether less understanding.

Not A Prayer At Lords.

There’s no more gracious loser than that humble Black Capped bloke,
Though handicapped by the International Cricket Councils ruling joke-
Backing England to win on boundaries, the latest of their master strokes-
Including that deflected six from that lucky bast- batsman, Master Stokes!?



Growing up ain’t easy, no sirree. Boy, it pains me even now to recall just how hard it was. Memories still tugging away at the heart-strings. All so long ago and far far away.

The Dark Side, Han Solo and Me.

I was just on the cusp of that painfully awkward age
When sweet dreams turn strange and hormones rage,
When I went off to bed my sleep was thin and fleeting,
Boy, those crazy fever dreams would take some beating.

One night I drank down my cup of warm Ovaltine,
Settled into my Star Wars sheets, crisp and clean,
Safe and sound in my bed, tucked up nice and warm
I slept, dreams wandering towards the female form.

I woke with a sudden start, bolt upright I shot,
I was panting, burning hot, and in quite a spot,
My Luke Skywalker PJs now fitted rather snugly,
The reason, once it appeared, was pretty ugly.

I could only conclude that either time is a thief
Or I’d fainted for a moment, sublimely brief,
But once I was roused from my involuntary nap
I spied an issue that embarrasses many a young chap.

Past Mother dear in the kitchen I tried to scamper
With sheets and PJs hid deep in the laundry hamper,
Mama sweetly enquired what I had spilt on the quilt,
Gazing into my eyes, seeing two mute revelations of guilt.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, I swiftly let mine fall,
She picked up the phone, went into the hall, made a call,
Spoke to Papa in the hushed tones reserved for disaster,
Hung up, promptly called on assistance from the Pastor.

He told me of the sin of Onan, of strong willpower,
Of the cool soothing benefits of a long cold shower,
To stay pure of mind, ignore the lure of the Devils daughter;
But my sinful thoughts couldn’t be washed away by Holy Water.

The good Pastor tried, oh by God he tried
To act as my mentor and my spiritual guide,
He strongly advised me to seek comfort in prayer
And to toss out my poster of gold bikini clad Princess Leia.

He pulled out the Good Book, he quoted chapter and verse-
Old Testaments about plucking thine eye out- and worse-
God knows, growing boys are plagued by growing glands
But did the Pastor have to slip in the old tale of hairy hands?

All this noble talk came to naught,
I’d go to bed tense and overwrought,
Even if I fell asleep untouched by shame
In my dreams Leia beckoned, and I came.

My belief in divine retribution faded day by day,
I preferred to live and believe in a galaxy far far away,
As my developing mind and body grew and evolved
I decided if we’re made in His image- problem solved.

Still, as I soaped up behind the streaming shower door
For a hot and steamy best part of an hour- or more-
I wondered if the down sprouting under my arms
Might start to gravitate down to my palms.

With a face overrun with acne and suppurating pimply sores
No pretty girls would face me, so I withdrew into Star Wars,
For three years I held Princess Leia close, to my heart,
Reimagining Star Wars with me playing the Hand Solo part.

One day I passed the Pastor and he stopped and said
‘Have you been good?’ and I felt my face burning red,
All that sage advice He had offered that I’d not taken-
He turned away, leaving the hand I’d proffered unshaken.

I was slipping down the Dark Side of a slippery slope,
I’d long lost the Pastors faith but just when I’d lost hope
Sweet Charity took pity on me, made me, her latest rookie,
Otherwise it was chop off my right hand or become a Wookiee.



In the Cricket World Cup the true fans stayed up to watch India defeat New Zealand. Ummm, the outcome was not the result most had anticipated…

A Sad Business.

It’s a hard old life for our poor hard-working Sanjay,
Manning the tills, at the counter eighteen hours a day,
Opening the doors at the first hint of dawns early light,
Not closing those doors till the clock ticks past midnight.

But yesterday Sanjay appeared bleary weary and grey-faced
And on his always-open door this declaration he tearily placed,
‘Closed this morning, thanks to the Black Cap over-achievement’
This Cup-upset leaves Sanjay mourning an unexpected bereavement.



He had them swaying in the sun and sand to the Bossa Nova beat. Take your final bow, Jaoa Gilberto.

Ciao, Jaoa Gilberto.

‘Bye to the man who made ‘The Girl From Ipenema,’
That ode to the hot-blooded Latin dreamer- and schemer,
Jaoa’s beach partying days are done,
For him, the Ipeneman sands have run,
He’s had his time, his moment in the sun.
For Jaoa Gilberto, the reclusive master of the Bossa Nova
The dreams of golden beaches and glistening peaches are over.



Kentucky Jim Beam warehouse burns, lock, stock and barrels. The story, distilled.

Cast Upon The Waters.

Laden to the brim with prime Jim Beam
The ol’ Kentucky warehouse caught afire,
It proved dispiriting to the Fire Fighting team
So sorrowfully trying to water down that pyre.

What did not burn flowed slowly downstream,
What more could a lucky Kentucky fisherman desire?
Fish flopping happily into the net is an anglers dream-
Steamed pickled fish out of water, straight into the fryer.