Monthly Archives: February 2020

What started as a short Little Willie poem somehow took on a life of its own: A short one, but a life nevertheless.

Sea Salt Air.

Crusty Ol’ Salt Willie, lighthouse keeper,
Chronic somnambulist and heavy sleeper
Wishes the circular stairs had been slightly steeper-
Then he might not have stumbled on the Grim Reaper.

When he reached the top
And the railing bid him stop
Why did his salt-lashed eyeballs not pop
Before the sphincter clenching long drop?

Pressed up against the trusty railing
Did Willie hear the rusty bolts failing?
Down went Willie, arms and legs a’flailing;
Willie, beware of ragged rocks when sailing.

When dawn and a bright brand new day appears
Do Willies wife’s searching eyes hold grave fears?
From high up on yon tower down she peers…
Willies wife’s eye’s well up with shallow tears.

As ‘oer the jagged rocks the sea gently swishes
Maritime Assurance remains mightily suspicious
As to how and why Wet Willie swims with the fishes,
But still, they gotta grant the widow a million wishes.

 

©Obbverse

Another Wild West-like shooting in sweet sober and genteel Milwaukee. We must all be getting numb to all this because it barely raises an echo on the airwaves these days. And isn’t that sad?

A Case Of Making Lite,

Down at the Ol’ Molson brewery
Somebody got pissed and agitated,
First, drunkeness in the first degree,
Now a killer hangover, and terminated.

Soon he turned to drinking,
Tossing back the beers,
Sitting alone, spirits sinking,
Dark eyes drip with hoppy tears.

Since they repealed Prohibition
It’s his legal and constitutional Right,
His amended defended Rightful position-
Barkeep, you’re bound to serve him till he’s tight.

We’re free to get totally trashed
In a pub, a private club, like, say the NRA?
But expect to get completely smashed
If you try to take their licences away.

When it comes to being a defendant
Of all the rights that keep us free
The importantest is our Second Amendment
Says the NRA to its blind unblinking army.

How much Dutch courage does it take
To spur a mad man into action?
To drunkenly lash out and make
A tragedy out at his dissatisfaction?

When a mans mind is corroded
With a case of the devils brew,
If the ol’ circuits get overloaded,
May he not pop off a shot or two?

No, we no longer roam the range,
We don’t- usually- shoot up the saloon,
But if’n the ol’ NRAs position don’t ever change
We’re gunna keep playing that ol’ funereal tune.

Why not  pick up that six-pack?
 Forget about work, and going back…

It’s all too easy to wipe the foam
Away from a well inebriated lip,
And return to work, and not go home,
Packing a loaded pistol on your hip.

 

©Obbverse

Harvey W gets the justice his infractions and actions so richly deserves. Not a dry eye in the courtroom.

Justice Done, In The End.

White-knuckled and gripping his well-worn walker
Stands the feared and infamous Hollywood stalker,
His attorneys trust this prop he theatrically clutches
Will elicit a sorry response in all it innocently touches.

When Harvey hears his hefty sentence
Does he hang his heavy head in repentance?
His lawyers disappointment they cannot conceal,
They definitely foresee a long and comprehensive appeal.

Harvey clutches at his chest as the pains start
Can’t his accusers and victims have a little heart?
So Harvey’s off to Hospital, put on observation and a drip
In the tender mercies of a cold-hearted nurse with an icy grip.

While the Judge adjourns for a well-deserved lunch
Harvey’s legal team swiftly get their briefs in a bunch,
Of Harvey’s innocence none harbour one ounce of doubt,
Honor bound to fight tirelessly on- until his riches run out.

Lying, crying, white knuckles gripping the gurney,
Wishing he had taken the Go-straight-to-Jail journey,
Suffering the indignity of those infernal hospital robes
Cursing as his smiling heavy-handed nurse internally probes.

 

©Obbverse

 

Welcome to a blended extended thermo-nuclearly unhappy family. Not to mention, family planning.

A Few Hard Home Truths.

What a grand and great relationship
We’ve forged lovingly together,
We’ll not let our moorings slip
Despite bouts of inhospitable weather.

We’ve now been married for a year,
They say the first one is the worst,
But most who hold us near and dear
See we’re so loved-up we could almost burst.                                                                                                  ,
I’m grateful for this little home we share,
Your family is largely accommodating,
But believe me, I’ve been made painfully aware
That some pleasure in my company’s dissipating.

Every day our love grows stronger
Than it was the day before,
But, Love, it won’t last much longer
If I must abide with Mother-in-law.

I do so love my lovely wife
Yet it feels we still live in sin,
Yes, we’re blessedly Wedding Mass sanctified
But these humble walls are paper thin.

So here we are on our anniversary
And as my darling leans in for a kiss
Through the wall I hear my old adversary-
In the kitchen, hear the steaming boilers hiss?

So let’s not stay celibately in tonight,
Lets sneak out and celebrate our wedding day,
We’ll luxuriate in the Hotel Grands suite delight-
Sometimes we all need to get off and away.

 

 

©Obbverse

The old familiar saying is ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’ Not in this dysfunctional family it doesn’t.

’66, The Mother Road.

Lucky Wandering Willie got a job in Vegas,
Willie wished to augment his Casino wages,
But he broke the rules when he marked the deck,
He broke and ran before Bruno broke his neck.

Lucky ran like a cut cat, he ran for his life,
He ran out the car park, he ran out on his wife,
Down dark alleyways he poundingly pelted,
He ran till his steaming Sketchers melted.

He skipped into the Desert Lodge only to find
He’d left his expensive grab-bag of troubles behind,
So he laid low in a two-bit stinking sauna of a hotel;
Better to sweat here than suffer Bruno’s bloody hell.

Rambling Lucky Willie gambled on his good luck,
It left him, flat busted in Las Vegas, silly schmuck,
It’s a tiny town to hide in when you owe a million,
Miniscule when the family next door is Sicilian.

Poor unfortunate Willie was out of tricks,
Time to bail out, to sh hit the bricks,
When Bosco pounded heavily on his door
Willie bounded lightly off the second floor.

Willie lit out of Vegas that very night,
Walked the back-roads till morning light,
Then it was time to lay down his weary head,
If Bosco caught him up he’d be spittin’ up lead.

A faint trail snaking off into the sand
Offered only the shade of a Yucca stand,
There he stumbled on a long deserted Dodge,
A humble home, even though no Desert Lodge.

And so Lucky Willie slept the day away,
Got out of Dodge at the end of the day,
He limped along ‘neath a ghostly moon
Praying he’d find some hick town soon.

Bruno drove all day in air-conditioned splendor
His eyes peeled for someone crisp and tender,
Squinting in the sun for someone dehydrated,
His aim; to literally leave Willie well ventilated.

Bruno would’ve made the paisan Swiss cheese,
But it seems Willie was gone, like a cool breeze,
The Casino kindly offered his wife their support,
Even helped her file a missing person’s report.

No, the diligent detective’s found no trace of Willie,
Our hot-foot fugitive’s trail turned downright chilly,
Willie, last seen by a road crew outside of Primm,
Since that last sight, no-ones seen a sign of him…

——————————————————————-

Though the Willie trail went cold a few months back
Bosco still thinks of Willie, driving in his Cadillac,
Poor Lucky Willie sure was one unlucky mother-
Finding Nevada Road Fill’s run by Bosco’s brother.

Bruno knows Willies gone but he’s not forgot,
At a certain point, Bosco’s found a soft spot,
That dip on Route 66, down the road apiece-
Lost in time and lime Lucky rests in peace.

Ps; This was ‘inspired’ by driving down a long boring stretch of road alleviated by the random shuffle selecting Jason and the Scorchers version of ‘Lost Highway.’  

©Obbverse

What’s happening to the Lucky Country? Bushfires, shark attacks, oil and water drying up- and now this. Holden bites the dust. Crikey!

With A Whimper.

It all started up down at Fishermens Bend
We had a Genuine partnership, my Special friend,
Aw jeez, now yer dumping me, it’s journeys end?
Just like a busted wheel my heart cain’t mend.

Don’t ya remember when days were golden,
Back then when we were flush, the money rolled in?
We ran the hottest flamin’ dealership for Holden,
Now its been a cold day since a punter strolled in.

It was just a day after Valentine’s Day
I read my ‘Dear John’ letter with dismay,
My true love was packin’ up, goin’ away?
What a grievously monstrous thing to say.

My fingers slackened, as did my jaw,
The letter fluttered to the workshop floor,
Fair dinkum, my darlin’s duckin’ out the door?
I reached for some comfort, bottom drawer.

I took a drink, drank deep and long-
When the spirit’s weak, make it strong,
I wondered maudlinly ‘what went wrong?’
Then stumbled out to dribble by the billabong.

Nah, no more will the limping  roaring lion roam,
Flashing down the streets with teeth of chrome,
General Motors lit up them tyres, they’re flying home,
No last slow dignified ride back in the black Brougham.

Cobber, mate, I’m not watcha call a sensitive dude,
My oath, I’ve been called rude and f- far worse, crude,
But this  I can say with a high degree of verisimilitude
Unlike his bottle this guy’s gettin’ well and truly screwed.

 

Ps: For what its worth, minor inspiration  ‘Heart Like A Wheel’ Kate and Anna McGarigle and ‘The Newcastle Song’ Bob Hudson.

 

©Obbverse

Who does not like to see things being re-purposed, recycled, or reclaimed? Sometimes though, after the shabby-chic treatment don’t you just feel re-used?

Up Cycled.

We’ve recently taken a pedal into an old part of town,
It’s long been tagged as unsavoury and well run down,
But now it’s been all tarted-up, prettified and gentrified,
It’s been well flipped so as to show its bright not dark side.

For ever it’s been dumped on the wrong side of the tracks,
Here, even bad-as Hells Angels warily watch their backs,
The river runs high with rancid sludge and a ranker smell,
Even before the bikies ran out this ‘hood had gone to Hell.

But now the Victorian ruins have been lavishly restored,
The brick-work water-blasted, all rotten flaws refloored,
Now the developers can look at their enterprise with pride,
Cashed-up customers come a’flocking in from far and wide.

They’ve re-roofed the three-sheets-to-the-wind rusted roof,
The trusty developers reassure the tenants all is water-proof,
They’ve made a cash cow by scouring out the old Tannery site,
The lucky tenant’s leases are iron-clad and screwed down tight.

So, we dismounted our mountain bikes and strolled around,
What a fine array of whimsically priced fripperies we found,
A Tea Room charmingly infused with every blend of Specialtea
With organic free-range scones totally gluten and taste free!

Here, a hipster’s barber, complete with cravat, fedora and cheap cigar-
There, a ladies retreat, all sweet lotions, micellar waters, a stone cold spa-
Everywhere, wild-flowers, scented candles, potpourri perfumigate the air
Upstairs, a purveyor of pre-owned books, each volume precious and rare.

Behind the polished glass, hidden by glossy Grisham’s and Attwood’s
Lurking deep in shadow and dusty hibernation I spied the real goods,
What price the grubby Greene, what cost that long lost Crusoe?
I’d love to recover poor old Robinson but there’s only so far I dare go.

I admit I lingered longingly at the Lady Chatterley chastely tucked away
High above the wall of Da Vinci Browns and unmoving Shades of Grey,
We ended with a stroll down memory lane, perusing the Antique Shoppe,
To count the cost of junk wed’e once tossed away- I felt my heart might stop.

We’re not the demographic here,we don’t rashly rush in, buy and large
But we lined up at a ‘cantina’ and after coughing up the cover charge,
We laughed off our al fresco ale, our cracker topped with a sprig of rocket
Then pedalled off with hollow smiles, heavy hearts and a lighter pocket.

What did you do on Valentine’s Day? Or on Valentine’s night? Flowers just might not cut it or quite do the trick on this occasion.

Be My Valentine.

I have my love and she has mine,
She tells me of her love, deep and true,
How rare ’tis for two hearts to intertwine,
Oh, my sweet love, I give my heart to you.

I brought her red roses on Valentine’s Day,
I thought to lay them on her sweet bed,
Oh, but why is she not at work but at play?
I crushed those roses till my hands ran red.

So, my love, give me back my broken heart,
You took my trust, my love, you lay and lied,
Outside the door I hear the hopeless pleading start,
When you break it down you find we’re all dead inside.

 

PS: The car radio was crassly playing ‘Dear Doctor’- on Valentine’s Day!- and the lines ‘Help me Dear Doctor, I’m damaged, there’s a pain where there once was a heart,’ sounded ghastlily inspirational.

 

©Obbverse

Roses, wine, chocolates, gooey texts, sweet words of love on Valentine’s Day. Then, sometimes, the magic will be unleashed and love will have its way. Them rare sweet days when pure logic takes a back seat. Gotta love ’em!

Valentine’s Day Masala.

Tearily I recall that night after Valentines Day, I
Pulled Cavalierly into that cold unromantic lay-by,
After a rich meal spiced up with cheap sparkling wine
Surely my beloved would melt in these arms of mine?

Casanova had found it particularly galling
When he found he was hopelessly falling
For a Catholic girl who felt honour bound
To go up the aisle pure and white gowned.

The light of love and Moscato filled her sparkling eyes,
As chocolate liqueurs served me in my dark enterprise
I leaned in, desperately keen to express the love I felt…
Ain’t no getting past the cold shoulder or chastity belt.

 

 

PS; I know the last couplet might sound uncomfortably close to Chuck Berry’s, but with some rhymes there’s only one particular way it can go. So, close, Chuck, but no cigar.

 

©Obbverse.

The urban legend states that drivers of German prestige cars are wank- er, jerks. So a Finnish Professor did a study which concluded ‘Sadly, Ja, they are!’

A Lapse Of Luxury.

For years poor German auto drivers have put up with
Being called scheisse drivers, so let’s confirm the myth.

Thank you for your findings, Professor Lonnqvist,
You’ve proved German car drivers head up the S list,
Audi  uber alles drivers spin you into the safety fence,
Overtaking, over all the yellow lines, not a bit of sense.

Give any fast approaching ass-Audi a gentle warning toot-
They’ll leave four conjoined circles puckering your boot.

The Beemer driver is Xcremental arrogance personified,
In traffic jams he sits, front and centre, and woe betide
Any poor plebeian in a Prius who signals an intent to turn,
The Right light may say ‘all go’ but he’ll let the Greenie burn.

He sits in his Dummkofwagon, lording it over the peasantry,
Above reproof, deaf to toots, the cause of all unpleasantry.

But it’s the over-egoed big boy still in thrall to the silver star-
Guaranteed to be the bat crap craziest bad drivers by far-
He’s ecstatic to drive out of the dealers a small fortune lighter
Despite the grave reservations of his insurance underwriter.

The pricey new Mercedes owner is entitled to feel he’s owed
The right to run red lights, give no ways since he owns the road.

See the imperious glint of his eye, and off his gleaming grille?
But it’s the pampering of his polished Panzer that makes me ill ,
His Benz must be protected from all dings, dents or marks,
Ergo, the safest place is to take up two handicapped parks.

As for indicators, these geniuses have no need or wand to know;
But cross ones path- one slick finger flick shows you where to go.

 

©Obbverse