Monthly Archives: June 2020

When you’re a Great – a really great, so unbelievably great- reality TV star, why would you hide your best asset?

That Open Infectious Smile.

Here’s a question too few Trump flunkies dare to ask;
‘Mr President Sir, why don’t you deign to don a mask?’

Even when Mr doting lap-dog Vice-President Pence
Says wearing a protective mask makes Great sense?

Now, covering up old affairs Don sees as only sensible,
No-one, certainly not Don, wants to look reprehensible.

Don believes his cherub-cheeked face is his shining glory,
That his sunny saintly smile can sell any half-assed story.

See, he wants his words to ring out strong and clear,
To spread his sick sad soliloquies into the atmosphere.

Ask about his taxes though, and he draws the veil,
When it comes back to taxes, privacy must prevail.

Don has facts he’ll openly doctor, and grudges to nurse
So why would he mask the brightest star in his universe?

Donald wants to show his public the full-frontal view,
The fake tan, the pearly white teeth, the eyes o’ blue.

Squint below the tinted TRESemme-ed locked-down hair
And see what cold soulless depths lie deep down there?

But, clothing his mouth… nope, Don could never embrace it;
He’d look even more like a bandit in a bandana, let’s face it.

 

(Background theme for this could be Frank Zappa ‘I’m The Slime’.  Just a thought, I’m in a whimsical mood today.)

©Obbverse.

Every writers nightmare; The answer, though, might be alighting right outside your window.

Grounded.

I’m really truly suffering through writers block,
I’ve reams of pure white virgin A4 stock,
Stacks of empty worded pages mock,
My inspiration soars, like a rock.

No matter how hard I try,
How I look up to the sky,
Lord on high knows why-
But my words won’t fly.

Thoughts scramble through my mind, tumble to the floor,
Once my brain and right hand had this great rapport,
This day all my high-falutin words serve but to bore-
And that bird wittering outside is the last straw! 

Guess I’ll lay down my quill and cease this fu- futile quest,
Broodily watch the machinations of a robin red breast,
Toss this page outside, inspirations gone West-
Hey, bird brain, take this shit to line your nest.

(inspired by a poem ‘Pretty Little Sparrow/Lauren M. Hancock
And the song ‘Look Over Your Shoulder’ by Alan Price.)

©Obbverse

Tennis star Novak Djokovic’s stubborn stance on playing through the pandemic proves problematic.

Return Of Service.

Oh, naive Novak Djokovic, where have you been?
Traipsing around Serbia, serving up Covid-nineteen?
Showing unmasked contempt for any possible vaccine
Till a routine swab returns results Novak hadn’t foreseen,
Novak was positive his snot samples would come back clean:
Gone from playing in open tournaments to staying in quarantine.

 

©Obbverse

No standing O in Oklahoma for Don’s empty performance. Sad!

Tulsa Turnaround.

The Trump Tribe were a’beating a path to his Tulsa rally,
The Okie dopey’s all a’lined up to be wowed by the high chief,
But today Donald’s high expectations for his crowd don’t tally,
Don’s claims for his latest GreatesT sell-out strain only belief.

Though rural Oklahoma’s no place Slick City Don wishes to dally
Still Donald’s speech rambles on, he wouldn’t think to make it brief,
His is the biggest shit-storm that’s ever blown down Tornado Alley-
Any protester he sees is a window-breaking rapacious pillaging thief.

Donald tries hard to work the thin crowd up to a cheering finale,
For those not his enamoured fans the limp end came as a grim relief,
It’s a climax as faked as Ms. Ryan evinced in ‘When Harry Met Sally,’
Perhaps here in the Big O is where Don’s re-election comes to grief?

 

©Obbverse

Controlling the covid by keeping everyone at home has meant housing for the homeless is happening at last. Some, however, feel more at home back out on the street.

Parked Up, Off Street.

Call me one crazy cat
Or crazy as a shit-house rat,
Or a footloose lush and loser.

I’m a surly solitary soul,
An unsociable drunk, on the whole,
Happy alone, I don’t think.

Back outside here I’m sat,
Back in my natural habitat,
Tipplin’ back ‘nother Vodka Cruiser.*

Life keeps taking a spiritual toll
So I keep filling the empty hole
With every drop I can drink.

 

*Cheap and nasty Kiwi alcopop.

 

©Obbverse

I’ve been reminded lately of those misty-eyed memories of innocent school days. Lets start the lesson, shall we?

Done Learning.

One thing you’ll do as you approach a certain age
Is to take more notice of the ‘Family Notices’ page,
Though todays tabloid lacks yesteryears broadsheet heft
It’s a morbid pleasure checkin’ out who you know has left.

I like to read the morning paper before the afternoon
So one morn I ordered brunch and opened the Tribune;
The usual ho-hum news, more plague, pestilence and war,
Then I fell upon some news that shook me to my souls core.

The sweet mochaccino suddenly took on a sour taste,
The ever sunny tan faded as I sat staring, chalk faced,
For there, amongst the fine print writ bold in gothic font
Was news of a loss so heavy I dropped my damn croissant!

My old Deputy Headmaster of dear Hagleigh High- dead?
I raised my trembling hands up to hold my shaking head,
I thought of the lessons that Bertie had dutifully imparted,
How his role as leader was never less than whole-hearted.

I recalled the angles and planes of that indomitable face,
All those deep-seared lifelong lessons time cannot erase…
My concerned wife said I appeared to be the picture of grief,
She handed me some tissue, which I took with tearful relief.

The old Alma Mater had supplied a glowing obituary
For one most considered Hagleigh’s highest luminary,
The tale they told of this sainted man of the highest order
Compelled me to compile my thoughts on the Tribunes border.

In my day, at Hagleigh High the most I hoped to achieve
Was to gain School Certificate and honourably leave,
Unfortunately, to gain this certificate one had to pass
Both English and Mathematics- a step too far for me, alas.

To fail in either one meant one hadn’t made the grade,
You’d be cast off to the Armed Forces, or off to get a trade,
And the Deputy-Head taught my class Mathematics- of course!
One lousy week in his class saw him flogging this flagging horse.

I was made painfully aware I had deficiencies to overcome,
Not heeding screamed instructions? to him I’m deaf or dumb;
In my first month I knew mathematics could not be mastered
Thanks to a sneering confidence-sapping bat-crap crazy bastard.

I was left an an utter loss by Berties scrawlings on the board,
The answer I came up with was ‘shut up, pray to be ignored,’
Yet my English improbably improved with every word I wrote-
Penmanship forging ahead; I forged a most convincing sick note.

Pre-math class every morning you’d find me sitting, sweating
In the toilets, relieving myself of any chance of pants wetting,
Every other cubicle engaged by four-fifths of the Fifth Form,
Every coughing, wheezing weedy Kool kid smokin’ up a storm.

I do still recall those chill mornings, getting my knickers in a twist,
All I need is to roll the Rolex up, count the livid scars on my wrist.

So, to end my little bye bye Bertie story, I’m glad he’s gone to Glory,
But first, let’s hope, like me, he does three full years in Purgatory.

 

©Obbverse

As the eyes of the watching world turn on a nation that is painfully- but finally- seeing a great history in the making, the President only looks to turn back the clock.

Faking History.

By mid 2020 Don’s cozy world felt more like Lost In Space,
All manner of irritations Donny finds he’s forced to face,
Covid deaths are on the up yet Wall Street keeps falling,
Employment’s soaring but work on his great wall is stalling.

Since George Floyd’s filmed death he/we can’t ignore
Police protestations of pure angelic innocence anymore,
Now innocent protesters can’t be bashed and battered?
Suddenly Don’s expected to believe black lives mattered?

Now racial profilings wrong, so’s a ‘random’ pat down search?
A Prez cain’t just gas it down his streets to some saints church?
All these twisted changes are apt to confuse a traditional man,
Soon they’ll be banning the Stars’n’Bars and the Ku Klux Klan!

Don yearns for the bad old days when places were segregated,
When cops pounded the beat and the streets were dominated,
Now strange changes seem to be happening at a gay old pace;
Sexist money honey grabbers now look obseletely out of place.

The idea of uniformly crushing discontent has GreaT appeal
But now even Generals want to bring the dogs of war to heel,
Even the Mighty Military now recommend a conciliatory tone,
Though they all know the one voice Don can hear is his drone.

Don had once heard that every argument should be two-sided
But since he always knows what’s best for all he’s long decided
To gather round him that guns’n’glory armed mob he Rightly favours-
His one change is ‘this speech ain’t free till ya’ll sign them covid waivers.’

It’s time to rally the dupes, to blow the dog-whistles, drop the wink,
To ramp up the racist rhetoric, ain’t no time to change minds, or think!
To call a rich Damn Yankee the Mouth of the South sounds a misnomer
But his sick message is bound to resound in unchanging Tulsa, Oklahoma.

©Obbverse

A tall but all too true tale from the waiting room. So who deserves to get the treatment today?

Nothing To Sniff At.

My poorly daughter had to take a Coronavirus test,
She had the rheumy eyes, the hacking racking cough,
The red rubbed raw philtrum, the sputum filled chest
That feels constrained by a corset that won’t shuck off.

She found the testy nurse testing her tough to forgive,
It’s no fun when Nurse Ratched gets right up your nose,
The diagnosis she bitchily delivered back was a ‘negative,’
That’s almost worth a bloody deviated septum I suppose.

Newly married, whole life ahead of the two of you, and then its all gone. Won’t someone tell him where he went wrong?

Misery Loves Company.

What I cannot abide
Is whatever spuriosities I spout
You won’t take my side-
My righteous words I never doubt.

I don’t roughly ride
Over the husbandly improvements you tout,
I hide my wounded pride
Behind folded arms and surly pout.

Lord knows I’ve tried
Laughing off all you witter about,
If you’d only shut up I’d
Have no need to shout.

‘Goodbye’ said my bride,
She cried ‘it’s over, I’m out,’
…Now it’s so lonesome inside
My strong silent empty redoubt.

©Obbverse.

Another Seventies Glam pop star now glimmers up high in the sky. Bye, Sweet Steve Priest.

Losing Our Sparkle.

Time has come to say goodbye to Steve Priest,
From this earthly contract he’s been released,
Bye,’Ballroom Blitz’ and ‘Fox On The Run,’
Finally Steve’s glitteringly Glam career is done.

Steve lays his heavy bass down at last,
Steve’s pounding beat is in the past,
Lets hope, as his Angel takes his spangly sleeve
He sweetly smiles and asks ‘are you ready, Steve?’

(So, yeah, okay, the last line makes more sense to the true Sweet fan.)

 

©Obbverse