What thoughts spring to the Mighty Ones mind as we march towards the third of November?

Going Postal.

A day after another inauspicious red letter day-
150,000 Coronavirus victims went on their way-
Donald turns away from figures that make him squirm
And focuses his GreaT mind on securing a second term.

Dons polling is of concern, despite what he does say,
From where he sits perhaps its time to kneel and pray?
Or since Roger Stone’s now free to come up with a suggestion
He’ll open the whole Democratic Election system into question?

In his empowered position Don feels a powerful need to stay,
So now’s no better time to suggest just a slight election day delay,
An election free of mail voting, who could think of anything greater?
Like his Pandemic plan Don vows he’s bound to get to it, sooner or… later.

©Obbverse

Peter Green, first Fleetwood Mac guitarist, dies in his sleep. Music-wise, a sad sad loss; But it was a tragic loss fifty years ago when first he lost himself. (Sometimes you don’t do acid. Acid does you.)

Not Of This World.

I’ll say a sadly late farewell to Peter Green,
He’s gone from the dark place he’s long been,
This man who put his soul into Fleetwood Mac
Then went off on his detour, never to come back.

Peter took a little trip on the Cosmic Cab,
A one-way trip that deals out a heavy tab.

He yearned to soar high to that mystical place
Where the bound to Earth might see Gods face,
So, with enquiring open mind Lysergicly expanded
Pete saw Heaven knows what before he crash-landed.

So if its blissful enlightenment you’re tempted to find
Please- think of how poor lost Peter changed his mind.

 

©Obbverse

Even among those who truly do believe it’s said that life ain’t fair. Now, from the depths of these dark Covid days, out of deepest Michigan, does one hear a faint forlorn ‘hallelujah?’ A warning: Very dark humour.

The Lords Calling.

This Coronavirus does not discriminate
Between the low sinner or the high saint,
For those shown the fickle finger of fate
Some truly believe they have reason for complaint.

In one Michigan nunnery the book tells a sad story,
Despite many a rosary rolled and crosses kissed
Thirteen nuns have been prematurely called to glory,
Thirteen unlucky brides of Christ, sadly missed.

A life of bending the knee to help fallen mothers,
A life where the Good Book is unfailingly right,
A life where sinful pleasures are reserved for others,
A nuns life is black and white and buttoned down tight.

Nuns who’ve spent many long years serving the Lord
In the hope of being taken- eventually- up to Paradise,
Vows of poverty and chastity for only promised reward?
Does ones poor grey short life seem one hell of a sacrifice?

Let us hope when one is consigned to earth
That ones belief remained eternally strong,
And let us pray, for what it’s damn well worth
That ones last thought ain’t ‘Jesus, was I wrong?’

(I do feel for the loss; Though I may not believe I can hope their belief is not misplaced.)

©Obbverse.

Don deigns to give an interview to Chris Wallace on Fox; This time Fox doesn’t roll over for Don. Bad Chris Wallace! Bad boy!

Wallace And Vomit.

Donald sat down to do another fawning Fox interview
But Wallace tried to keep Don on the straight and true,
Don responded with his usual pouting pique and rancour-
This was not the usual unctuous behaviour of a Fox anchor!

Chris had upset the finest of well-scripted double acts,
Swiftly Don back-handed Wallace his ‘alternative facts,’
Don was petulant, peeved pissed off and confounded-
No President willingly trots out onto Fox to be hounded.

Don doesn’t wish to to illuminate, he prefers dark misdirection,
To confuse,  obfuscate, divide and misrule to wangle another election,
Leaving Don sweating in the spotlight ain’t what Chris is paid to do;
Donald’s memo strongly suggests a change in Foxes personnel is due.

 

©Obbverse

In these touchy times the high-flying aviation-fuelled travel industry is whining down. Seems most people like staying safe and secure at home. Most.

Fly, My Pretties!

These are painful days
For those in aviation,
Passengers preferring home-stays
And stowing the vacation.

There’s hardly anyone flying,
There’s little cash flow,
Even with rebates applying
Where the Hell to go?

I’m not flying anywhere
El Cheapo fares or not
I daren’t fly Ryanair-
Certainly not fu- flying Aeroflot.

Thanks to Covid 19
People cain’t safely roam,
It’s weeks in quarantine
Or stay safe at home.

Littering up every airport,
Aircraft from every land,
Long haul Dreamliners, caught short
Flightlessly sit and stand.

Airbuses and Bombardiers abound,
There’s buttloads of big-as Boeings
Settling into the soggy ground,
ain’t no comings or goings.

Now travel’s reached an impasse
Retain all tickets and receipts,
Once the plane’s kicked off the grass
We’ll happily hold your seats.

Still, in the States
Passengers still take flight,
Despite soaring infection rates,
It’s their unrestricted Right.

There there’s no travel ban,
Fly off where’er you please,
Be a high-steppin’ travellin’ man,
Ignore that infectious sneeze.

Some  refuse to be tied down,
Some have deadlines to meet,
At another place, another town,
Scything down from 20,000 feet.

So, fasten your safety belt,
Breath that recirculated air,
Offer up a prayer, heartfelt
That you’ve packed clean underwear.

Only a brave foolhardy few
Spread wings and fly,
If that someone is you
Good luck, and goodbye.

 

©Obbverse

 

 

 

Leading the conservative political party in New Zealand can be a short term proposition. (Awww, a sad Tory story.)

Devils And The Deep Blue Sea.

What’s happening to the National Party’s leadership?
Each new leader they select sees the Party’s popularity slip,
Since Commodore Key left leaving First Mate Billy the wheel
Helming the Titanic rather than the Blue Boat holds more appeal.

Old Bill, wise but dull as dishwater- his fortunes sank,
So Simon stepped up from the poop deck to higher rank,
Sadly Simon was simply out of his depth, young and green,
Under Simon the the boat- and votes- slid down like a submarine.

All too soon ’twas a grim story poor Simons opinion polls told,
Up from the mutinous crew stepped Todd, and Simon was rolled,
So a new Cap’n took the helm,  they say the cream rises to the top,
But after a mere 67 days Captain Presumptuous found he was a flop.

Now Todd’s dream boat has sailed,
Another Leader’s bottled it and bailed,
The True Blue Crew ran about, looking around
But good fresh new Blue blood’s thin on the ground.

Now hard embittered Old School Jude-vcious runs the barge,
Tryin’ to clean up her shit ship even as Deputy Gerry looms large,
In her steely claw the National scow’s bound to take a hard Right turn,
Losing middle ground rowing in ever decreasing circles- that’s her concern.

 

©Obbverse

Donald Trump and the artifice of the Courthouse Deal. First, lean a finger on the scales, then give Blind Lady Justice a poke in the eye.

Dishonourable Discharge.

Roger Jason Stone, liar, dirty trickster and cheat,
Guilty of every damn charge on his long rap sheet,
Convicted of the sin of perjury by a jury of his peers,
A criminal who deserves to be sent down for years.

But no fear of confinement ol’ Roguish Roger faces
For Mr Stone has low friends in the highest places,
Although his complete culpability cannot be disputed
He just knows his just sentence must be commuted.

From looking at three years and four months in jail
Roger finds he doesn’t have to raise a sweat- or bail,
What a GreaT reward for the GOPs consummate liar,
Plucked out of frying pan, slithering back into the mire.

Now Don’s ‘Drain The Swamp’ cry has the ring of fiction,
‘Lock Her up!’ somehow lacks, unlike Roger, real conviction,
So run free,  mean moody and Machiavellian Mr Stone;
But Don, know it’s by your creepy company you’re known.

Still, it gives you pause
To consider what would cause
Dodgy Don to cut a crook a even break-
Double-dealer Don, for philanthropy’s sake!

Sooo, why does Don feel the unjustified need to intervene,
Help Rog the Rat, who’s spent his life nose down the latrine?
Does Roger have some dirt on Don in his deep bag of tricks
For Donald to forgive the most unconscionable of pricks?

©Obbverse

Just for a change let’s have a chit-chat about the shi- weird weather. Ah well, into each life a little rain must fall.

Aqualand.

The late autumn sun setting in a blaze of glory
Put me in mind of that hoary old wive story-
‘Red sky at night brings the shepherd delight,’
Well, even wise old wives ain’t always right.

Before bed I looked out at the wildening sky,
Stepped out for a moment with questioning eye,
Under the rusting verandah in dire need of replacing
The wind whistling through me felt more than bracing.

As the wind whipped the dust from the rusted spouting
My faith in those wise old wives tales I started doubting,
The temperature was tumbling even as I numbly stood
‘Neath a stormy sky and an ill wind blowing no good.

High up in the Heavens something nasty was brewing,
Not God literally; my belief in Him remains nothing doing,
But that wind filled this soul with dread and apprehension,
I felt it in my water (and somewhere else I daren’t mention.)

After replenishing my hot water bottle from the hot tap
I set off to bed, tossing an ice-cube to my nightly nightcap
Only to waken at exactly midnight to either rain on the roof
Or some hoofer tap-dancing up there with heavy cloven hoof.

I wondered if I had been wrong and Judgement Day had come…
But time passed, and on high the rain and hail continued to drum,
So I realised I was still here on Earth, but Hell, it was pissing down-
Now concerned my rosemary, thyme and garden gnome might drown.

Peering anxiously out into the cold deep dark
My small holding looked more like a water park,
In the strobing lightning flashes I saw a sea of mud,
In the morn I’d step off our stoop and into the flood.

Come noon and we’d not seen the effulgent glow of the sun,
Ten inches dumped and *Ol’Send It Down Huey’s not yet done,
Heavens, I feel I must take a good book to bed to pore o’er tonight,
‘Boat-building For Beginners’, the Bible of the amateur Ark-wright.

*Australian entreaty to God to dump down a deluge of rain in times of drought.

 

©Obbverse

Ringo Starr bashes his way to eighty. Good to see Richard’s still kicking that kit.

Starr Bright.

Happy 80th birthday, Ringo Starr,
Who’d have thought you’d come this far?
Does the oldest member of the worlds best band
Take a moment to bow his head and silently stand?

On his auspicious day there’s a tinge of regret
As he remembers the glory days of a great quartet,
Since he’d first set the Beatles beat on ‘Love Me Do,’
Time has now cruelly edited the Fab Four down to two.

©Obbverse

Colourful character Brazilian President Bolsonaro contracts a Covid cough; Sounds like a case of Karma to me.

Sniff.

So, the Brazilian President has a teeny touch of the flu.
Boo hoo.
Both green and red-faced, but consumptively battling through.
Aaaatishoo!

‘Simply donning a mask could’ve protected me- and you?’
WHO knew?
Now he thinks wrapping a mask over his mouth is the right thing to do?
Waaaaay overdue.

He could have picked the itchy nose he had as his first clue;
It grew.
He sees the look in the grave eyes of his masked medical crew.
Code Blue.

©Obbverse