Monthly Archives: August 2019

Boris Johnson, from mayor to nightmare in the blink of an eye.

Going Blondly Where None Have Gone Before.

Since Boris Johnson has taken command
Of England’s grim and unpleasantly divided land
Do you wonder where Parliamentary democracy went?
That question gets short shrift from Boris The Omnipotent.

Want some time for Parliamentary debate?
Boris smilingly says ‘sorry, but time’s up, too late,’
Now that Boris’s big butt’s behind the steering wheel
It’s foot down to throttle any rumblings about his no deal.

BoJo is hellbent on doing what Teresa couldn’t achieve,
Boris’s going to fu- fly off, and without a buy-your-leave,
Driving blindly forward to where there’s no coming back,
Bozo’s exiting,hard, Right, into a cold unfriendly cul-de-sac.

A friends best friend came to the end of his run and made that last trip to the vets. Now another friends friend has come to the end of his tether as well. A tribute to two of the best.

Dogs LIfe.

Where does one begin
To talk about a dog like Finn?

You acquired a dog one joyous day
For what seemed a fair price to pay.

His whining kept you up half the night-
Oh, you’d been sold a pup all right.

Want to take a drive, go for a ride?
Open the door, be brushed aside.

A quick stop outside the butchers shop
And the drooling would never stop.

Return to excited nose prints on the glass-
Open the window- his farts will pass.

Take him for a walk in the park,
That hound was bound to leave his mark.

You get a doggy grin and a tail wag
And a steaming Pak’n’Save bag.

Then, once walkies were done
Finn might well fire off another one!

That dog was trouble, right from the start
And then he goes, and breaks your heart.

So farewell Finn and farewell Smith,
Proof mans best friend is no mere myth.

First comes the bitter disappointment of rejection, then the acceptance of losing- but who’s griping? Well, I am. Still.

A Kick In The Guts.

Since a humourous poetry competition rejected the fine words I’d written
I’ve been forced to take some time to review the ill-fated verse submitten,
Now to add to my mental misery, by a virulent stomach flu I’ve been smitten,
If the first upset left me sick as a dog, the second leaves me weak as a kitten,
Regurgitating my turned down offerings was unsettling I don’t mind admittin’,
Keeping cruel criticism and chicken soup down ain’r easy- from where I’m sittin’.
 

Donald Trump, President of World-Wide Real Estate, looks around for an investment. Look out Greenland!

Real Estate Buffoon.

Donald thunked ‘wouldn’t it be great
To make Greenland the fifty-first state?’
For Don this expensive venture holds great appeal-
And Trump could bank on Treasury to finance his deal.

To Donald, something about this place feels right,
Yes, it is a particularly strategically important military site,
But imagine, Dons own snow-white impenetrable garrison?
Suddenly Puerto Rico’s importance pales in comparison.

It would be his greatest deal, save for one small detail;
Those damn Danes say their territory is NOT for sale,
Don looks jealously at those rolling fields of green,
What a great private golf resort it could’ve been.

Another winning writers contest comes and goes. Just what makes for a funny submission? Who knows? (Not bitter or twisted, just befuddled.)

Nolo Contendere.

Checked my E-mails, same old dull routine,
Then a new missive lights my dull grey screen,
News from a competition entered loooong ago,
Click ‘open’, oh, but don’t get my hopes up though.

I’ve so hoped for the best before,
And I’d be disappointed once more.

Again, rejection, painful but not unexpected,
Again my select name amongst the unselected,
But after a sigh, a roll of the eyes and a rueful smile
I thought I’d read what wonders had topped the pile.

Perhaps, judging by the mood I was in
I shouldn’t judge- but where can I begin?

One thing required in a humourous poem contest
Is content that leaves one laughing, not depressed,
I’ll agree it is the good judges call to be fair, firm and tough
And I’ll allow my work this year- and hers- ain’t good enough.

Jeffrey Epstein won’t have his day in court. His day is done. How to deal and understand with his tragic passing?

Perverting Justice.

They hauled poor cold Epstein from his cell,
Somehow Jeff had expired there- oh well,
The upside- he’s not looking at more jail,
The downside- he’s looking dead as a doornail.

No watching while his whopping legal bill enlarges
As his wily lawyers fight his childish charges,
No more paying for a ‘get out of jail’ card,’
Now his long-term future’s in the boneyard.

No more wondering throughout the trial
If he’ll be found a two-time paedophile,
Now he has no reason to wonder-
The reason being, he’s six feet under.

He might have been an amoral beast
But all that’s ceased since he’s… deceased,
Some cry blue murder, some say suicide
But all agree he wound up dead inside.

Seeing too many old movies means it’s time to have a stab at a gripping old ripping yarn.

Low Ebb.

Back in the bad old days, in Old London Town
A mist sprung up, a heavy fog rolled down,
As the good God-fearing Victorian folk slept
Into seedy Whitechapel that damned fog crept.

At the end of a dark dank Dockside alleyway
A lady of the night decided she’d call it a day,
It had been a profitable night for an enterprising maid;
But there’s no profit being alone in the dark, in her trade.

She headed for home with bone weary tread,
After a night on her back she longed for her bed,
But she was mistaken to think she was all alone,
In the fog muffled footsteps echoed her own.

In the confines of Bucks Close the fog thickened,
As those steps sped up her heart-beat quickened,
From her trembling lips her breath came wreathing,
Then, on her neck she felt a hot and heavy breathing.

For a girl who regularly walked the street
This was no man she had wished to meet,
He seized his lapels, opened his greatcoat wide
And the size of his weapon left her terrified…

No, this was no ordinary flasher,
Yes, this was the Docklands slasher!
In a flash her days (and nights) were done,
Then ’twas the Rippers time to cut and run.

Down towards the Thames he blindly ran,
Washing his hands of the crime being the plan,
But the infernal fog hid the embankment railing
And into the dirty old river the Ripper went sailing.

Weighed down by a voluminous greatcoat
Jack the Dipper struggled vainly to stay afloat,
He and his cries for assistance were lost in the mist,
And so the Ripper himself wound up last on his list.

Though the man(iac) in question has long gone
The myth and mystery of his identity lingers on,
The name of the Ripper no-one can provide
All known remains, lost to time, and to tide.