The outcome of the latest ‘Presidential’ debate; ‘What we had there was a failure to communicate’

A Quiet Word, Gentlemen?

The Chumpian Don and Challenger Joe
Were set to go at one another, toe-to-toe,
Big mouthed Don took more than a little solace
Knowing the judge would be foxy Chris Wallace.

But after Don and Joe's first over-heated debate
Which, from all most could hear, wasn't so great,
Since Don, as usual only wanted to hear his side-
Even Wallace's patience was well and truly tried.

Donald tends to speak for too long and far too loud,
You know, the usual rants to his rabble aroused crowd,
Don ignored all rules of debate, every Wallace instruction,
Just kept grinding on till Chris forced a POTUS interruption.

So we were treated to the deciding round last night,
Both tetchy parties warned to keep the fight polite,
'Two minute rounds before any point was disputed-
Any button pushing trash talk and your mic's muted.'

This time points were validly scored, both blue and red-
The difference being we heard every bloody word said,
If only we'd known, to get Don to butt out or back off
Simply reach for the shut-up switch, just pull the jack off.


President, Professor and statesman Donald J. Trump, an actual medical marvel.

President Trump, Resident Shaman. 

Donald's re-election plans were looking sick
So he drugged out his old tired but trusty trick,
Doctor Don's patented cure is downright cruel;
Donny decides Doctor Fauci must play the fool.

He don't mince words with his double dealings,
Don sure don't believe in masking his feelings,
Good Doctor Fauci has been hung out to dry,
Guess who Donny's designated as his fall guy?

Now Don says all Doctor Fauci's sick talk is phony?
Great Medicine Man Don knows better than Tony?
Tony's just another discarded discredited Trump minion?
Would you stake your your life on witch doctors opinion?

In Las Vegas it’s odds-on your luck will run out. Sadly.


We struck it lucky on our last Las Vegas trip,
There we saw an historic bit of showmanship,
From our front row seat at Siegfried and Roy's
We saw a Grand finale from those two old boys.

They've entertained us all for untold years...
So, now a touch less boyish than first appears;
Note the lush leonine manes of layered dyed hair
And those fixed faces, half botox, half Tupperware.

As the big cats prowled their cages
Roy rattled on, much as he's done for ages,
The tigers bared their teeth, growling loudly
'Pussy cats in my hands' Roy thought proudly.

I wonder, did Roy take his routine too lightly, pray?
Perhaps the tiger wasn't feeling too bright that day?
Call it overfamiliarity, call it a catastrophic oversight
Whatever, Roy got a deep insight into a tigers underbite.

After thousands of shows without an accident
Into retirement, with wounded pride they went,
The Mirage's management terminated their run
Just because Roy entertained a bit of armless fun.

This tasteless offering was going to be for a short poetry prompt but it kinda sorta took on a larger life of its own. Perhaps, as Siegfried and Roy found, sometimes you can’t rein things in, it all starts to get away on us and before you know it everything’s running uncontrollably amok. 


It’s not easy getting into a Militia mans head- and when you do it leaves you queasy.

(A few thoughts from a member of Michigans moronic Militia while waiting on a lawyer.)

Just A Zealous Guy.

We can't have mobs roaming, owning the streets
Upsetting our noble brave boys in blue-
Unless they're brave knights wearing white sheets
Gathered there to protect the Right and true.

Unlike the good ol' ones these days are passing strange,
I see the sea change, it's blowin' a gale,
Seeing foreign faces not welcome in my home on the range,
They leave me looking a whiter shade of pale.

I don't want to hear or see all the signs of the times-
But I do hate to see Democrats legally elected,
I do believe in Mr Trumps brave assertion of ballot crimes
And that our Confederate flag is horribly disrespected.

I believe nowadays we hear too much colourful chatter,
I believe some folks just best shut their mouth,
I can't help but take a dim view of Black Lives Matter,
This proud North Michigan boy sez 'Go back South.'

So, since the law abiding Michigan voters don't know no better
And our redneck misogynistic feelings she's assaulting 
We're gonna go get Governor Gretchen, leave a ransom letter;
Surely our founding fathers wouldn't call this revolting?

Strange, now I'm down in lockdown but atop the FBIs hot list
Yet I'm Right and white, so it all feels grossly unfair,
I'm feeling uneasy about getting stuck in a cell with a real terrorist,
This could be this sad-ass Aryans worst nightmare.


As a bit of silly fun there’s four song titles tossed into this. Artists are Bing Crosby (plus many others) Procol Harum, Harry Styles, Pug Jelly. If you’re bored, go figure. (Yes, Bonny Brian, a blatant musical rip-off; I feel no guilt…)

If Don can drag his bad self back to work, perhaps I should too?

In Need Of Medication.

When told a nasty airborne disease
Was a'wafting in from the China Seas
Actually, PresiDon didn't appear to much care,
Factually, he adopted a laughingly cavalier air.

When Faucci's esteemed team gave a damning report
Donny dismissed it and them with a derisive snort,
And that's when the Department of Infectious Diseases
Knew they'd be better directing their pleas to Jesus.

Though in their professional opinion covid was here to stay
Doctor Don proscribed that the virus would fade... away...
Don miserably failed to see a pandemic in the making
Or his inaction would lead to a Great grave undertaking.

Other than stopping Mueller sniffing 'round his affairs
Don's real interest remains in healthy stocks and shares,
The man is unhealthily invested in private enterprise;
Who cares if the world outside Wall Street lives or dies?

So for months now, all while the deadly virus raged
Trump soaked up the atmosphere in the rallies he staged,
Showering his crowd with promises, left 'em in GreaT cheer,
They couldn't wait to pass his message on to their near and dear.

He loved how they had simply taken him to their heart
While feeling no need or desire to stay a good six feet apart,
As he, safe and smug behind his mask of delusional self-belief
Believed no virus could dare pass on to the Commander-in-Chief.

Roaming freely, flitting and flying all over the place,
Pushing his agenda, getting Right in everyones face,
Disavowing taking a knee (unless you're using the Force)
Turning all rational debate into anti-social intercourse.

Till came a gathering, the infamous Rose Garden party
Where Don failed to smell when someone cut the havarti,
Immediately the question of a toxic President arose,
A quick Q-tip test positively getting right up Don's nose.

Don and his wife were laid low in their sick bed,
Don felt a pounding upside his boogery thick head;
Got the chills, got a hot fever and runny snotty cough,
Perhaps he had been ill-advised to leave his mask off?

But Don isn't one to lie quietly back and take Doctors orders,
He's not bound to remain idling behind Walter Reed's borders,
There's an election to rig run so Don busts out of quarantine!
Why, does he want to be seen in the back of a black limousine?

With all the best polls (excluding Hannity and Friends)
Signalling that after four years his GreaTness now ends,
He needs to leave us a lasting legacy, on top of his border wall
So he's commissioned a portrait so as to look down on us all.

(The forty-fifth President will join that esteemed list
Of Presidents who, once gone, won't be sorely missed,
'Twould be a marvel if Don ever joined the Fantastic Four-
Those icons standing stone-faced up on Mount Rushmore.)

He's going at warp speed ensuring his fine face won't be forgot-
In case in future he'll be known by the number on his mug shot-
An artistic genius might possibly portray Don as just badly painted
But even hallowed Mike Pence knows Don can't ever be sainted.

Come November, when Donald is resigned to his fate
He'll be immortalised in an uncommonly gaudy portrait,
He's sure going to stand out from all the other ex-Presidents,
The very picture of wilful ignorance and unmasked arrogance.



Going write off. The latest merry message in the old Email has suggested a writing sabbatical is in order. Funnily enough, I agree.

Well Run Dry.

I used to thrill
To raise the quill,
Words gambolled on and on;
I guess that thrill is gone.

Dyspraxic digits clubbed the keyboard,
Typos and good grammar ignored,
Ideas tumbled happily from the mind
As fingers fumbled, sentences behind.

I’d thought I had something to say,
An amusing pun, bandy some wordplay,
Double entendres, two-fingered typed fun,
Now it’s two thumbs down for this tragic one.

Joie de vivre weighs heavy in my head,
Even my black humour is all but dead,
Trying to dredge up some light flight of fancy
Would mean a lift of spirit worthy of necromancy.

To raise the odd smile was my glad intent,
Sad, all my good humour’s gone off and went,
Perhaps it’s for the best to to stay quietly depressed?
So I’ll do as weary old readers have and give it a rest.

(Just a touch of burn-out showing? Obviously. Overtly melodramatic? Yep. Self-pitying? Yessiree Bob. Maudlin? Yes indeedy.  So, time for a little time out? Fuck yes.)


Once you’ve finally managed to dredge your team up to the Premier League in English football the hard work isn’t over, it’s only just beginning. Along with the glory comes a scant few ups, quite a few more downs, plus another almost certain pitfall- just ask any committed West Bromwich Albion fan.

Temporarily Promoted.

That West Bromwich Albion crowd are all celebrating again,
There’ll be cheers and beers being hurled in Halfords Lane,
Navy and white scarves will abound around Old Birmingham town,
At least till next May when, historically they’re bound to go down.

The Albion are one of those teams that drive loyal fans to drink,
All season long, nailed to the table bottom or clinging on the brink,
The Baggies, back in in their regulation spot, flirting with relegation-
At least of late poor Aston Villa fans can sympathise with that situation.

Still, congratulations! on becoming Birminghams second best,
Now two bum *Brum fans can still share in one common interest,
For one season the twain are Premier League teams, and so sitting pretty,
Both loving lording it over mutually loathed Wolves and Birmingham City.

*Appellation the lucky locals use for Birmingham.


Neil Young sues Trump over use of his music at Don’s fist-pumping rabble-rousing rallys. Good luck on getting Don to hear anything about that, Neil.

A Kick To The Chorus.

Once again Mr Trump’s re-election campaign
Is giving Neil Young cause to legally complain,
Neil’s getting grumpy that his copyrighted songs
Are being illegally played to promote Don’s wrongs.

Shouldn’t one of Don’s army of attorneys kindly explain
To Don that old Young’s tunes ain’t in the public domain?
All the plaintiff Neil wishes is for Don to cease and desist
From ripping his songs off and on to Don’s lousy party list.

The Rolling Stones have led the chorus of complaints, in vain,
‘You can’t always get what you want’ remains Trump’s refrain,
Don, use Ted Nugent’s crap, Teddy loves you, or ask Kanye West-
No, mebbe not, the colourful Kanye mightn’t pass Don’s litmus test.

Will Donald simply turn his back on all noisy complaints again?
Treat true legitimate protests with his usual dismissive disdain?
Well, the Rolling Stones have screamed at Don to stop for years-
It appears there isn’t a great deal resonating between dumb ears.



President Trump seeks answers to the question HE poses about his own personality? Well, he did ask.

Pity Party At Egos Anonymous.

Sometimes when you wake up feeling sad and blue
On a rare blue moon when doubt bedevils even you,
When the wife’s heart feels cold, the future looks bleak
It’s time to lay your burden down and stand up and speak.

Don is prepared to bare his very soul- if he must,
Though heeding others opinion fills him with disgust.

‘Hello, my name is Donald and I’m a Selfish Neurotic,
Though those in my party prefer the term ‘quixotic,’
And now, as I think back on four hard fraught years
Thinking of a future past November brings me to tears.’

‘Why, suddenly no-one wants to be my Bestie?
Now all my good ol’ boys and Yes-men detest me.’

It’s a rare privilege seeing this side of Donald J. Trump,
In many a throat there his mawkish tale raises a lump,
There he stands, a broken man with his token friends
Ever deeper into self-pitying he maudlinly descends.

‘So, everybody dislikes me because of my personality?’
For once everyone freely agrees with Don, like, totally.

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.