Phil Spector; Time to lay down his last track.

The Hit Man Goeth.

It's the final sweet release for flaky Phil Spector,
Gun enthusiast and mad  genius musical director,
Hit after hit till, finally, one fine day
Fatefully and fatally he blew it all away;
Phil, put the safety on when you gun play.

Perfect within his 'wall of sound' but mentally unsound,
The slow slide from Top of the Pops to deep Underground,
Soft the muffled farewell bell rang,
A token sob from the mournful old gang;
Gone out with a whimper, not a bang.



(As is all too obvious, I'm a fan of his music, not the man.)
credit; Murray Webb.

©Obbverse.

Things in the Northern hemisphere might not be so hot, but here Down Under its beyond balmy.

Clear As Mud.

We've had it, blue Summery skies a'plenty,
We're looking up at bone-dry Day Twenty,
No cool palm oases, none for miles around,
No shelter for sweaty man or panting hound.

Our once lush Spring verges, greenly grassed?
A ground down sepia brown, fading into the past,
Daily the Weather Guy repeats himself once more,
Hoary dry old promises, we've heard 'em all before.

So, it is no wonder noonday darkness startles us,
Our empty sky is deeply banked in Cumulonimbus,
Ain't no empty promise in this passing thunderstorm,
A rumble, then down she tumbles, wet, welcome, warm.

(In these highly charged tempestuous times about all we can safely talk about is the weather. So...)

”No, you misheard me, what I said was ‘Look, Sky Water’.”

©Obbverse.

After a week of sulking, Don does the write thing. Sorta.

Please Explain Letter.

The Republicans received this letter, signed and sealed,
Its creased and crumpled contents can now be revealed;
A missive from the President that actually appealed?

'My loyal friends, some think Your President may have erred,
Given a speech that rabble-roused, not patriotically stirred,
It's my sworn duty to tell you 'That's not what I heard."

'My Great impromptu speech fairly rattled along,
It's possible I may have come on a little strong,
But dare I say, few with me will say I did anything wrong.'

'I'm obliged to say I did not rashly stir up that crowd,
But Boys, if you do trash talk let's make it loud and Proud,
And everyone knew I meant 'Only peaceful protesting allowed."

'Some days when my loyal crowd is baying
'Midst the banners waving and the spittle spraying
They might not hear my plea- hear what I'm saying?'

'Naturally, I'd like to say I filled a Presidential role,
I even said I'd join em on a quiet downtown stroll,
I'd heard that mob was well acquainted with Con/troll.'

'I thought at the Capitol they were bound to halt;
Words failed me when I saw 'em up and revolt,
Anyways, what I can say is 'That ain't my fault."

'As they slid into anarchy so did my heart  lift sink,
After years of dog-whistling and tipping the wink
Who am I to call out that mob, tell 'em what to think?'

'We all know when I go off my Scripts I tend to be blunt
But the backsliding from you I take as a personal affront,
C'mon, we know I've still time to conduct my own Witch Hunt.'

'So, my trusted friends, lets laugh off this vote to impeach,
I'll try to clean up the excesses of my all-too free speech;
Since you all swallowed that joke I injected about bleach.'

'Once we all sang from the same song sheet,
Your constant chorus of praise rang so sweet,
Now I don't hear a peep, not one damned tweet.'

'Sorry if my sorry speech caused you sorrow
But I hope 'n' pray you'll say Right by me tomorrow,
And by the way, anyone got a Bible I can borrow?'

As Don's  'unlawfully dishonourable' judgement nears
By a jury of, Donald could never say, of his peers,
Another letter of explanation- in Capitals- appears...

'My Followers, though you and I are Much Maligned
NO Lawlessness, NO Vandalism NO Violence of Any Kind.'
A better letter would have simply said he's resigned.

If there's one thing Don can still flat-out refuse
It's believing in a crazy world  where he can lose,
He remains deeply, thickly fixed in his fake views.

'Nancy's talk of impeachin' me is nasty, not nice,
MAGA friends, might this half-hearted apology suffice?
Or must I humbly beg your pardon twice?'

‘Householder, Payment overdue!’

©Obbverse

What’s in store for for those of a Criminal Mind? Let’s hope they’re devils for punishment.

Hard Time(s)

Patriotic Republicans proudly boast
'Law And Order' first and foremost,
So, pray, what kind of sense must they be making
Of the latest gang Hell-bent on Housebreaking?

Law Abiders who found it oh so concerning
When Grand Old businesses were burning?
Cries about dark matters to be be silenced with no discourse,
Blind justice must be meted out with swift and undue force!

But when Patriots wave the barred flag,
Protecting the bad name of Fort Bragg?
But, by God when they believe they speak for all the nation???
Christ, then you should hear their Righteous indignation!

Flaunting their colours on the street,
Glass breaking under stamping feet?
Chanting and frightening the frail and defenceless?
Invading property, beating dutiful police senseless?

When you do the Capitol crime
Shouldn't you do Capital time?
And since we're passing comment on Capital punishment-
It's favoured by the current outgoing inciteful President.

                         ‘Desecrating America again.’ 

©Obbverse


	

At last, the long awaited cure for the dreaded affliction of Foot to Mouth disease.

Hush a Bye Bye/ Potus Gets The Message.

First, my electoral defeat-
That left me a tad downbeat,
Struck dumb by shock, sad to say,
'Twas indeed a dark blue/grey day...
But now I had grievous cause to bleat
About the GreatesT ever electoral cheat!

Lies, all lies, but lies I'll happily repeat,
Easily flicked out by a simple tweet,
But now I read, with deep dismay
They took my tweet voice away!
Where fantasy and fable meet!
Now my misery is complete.

‘Not Twitter! No, not that! Ach, the inhumanity!”

After the Christmas spend-up it’s now no time be a spendthrift, it’s time to cut back. Hard.

Turn Of The Card.

Hammering the Master Card?
Spending with reckless disregard?
Maxed out the American Express?
Left cents and penniless?

Dangerously low on cash?
Facing your financial crash?
Monetarily strapped and depressed
By sky-high monthly interest?

Remember the good old days
Before receiving your Barclays?
Wanna be freed of debt,
Unburdened by deep regret?

Don't have cash in hand?
Indebted by over a grand
but still enticed by what's in store?
It's all too tempting to ignore.

Deep in the shi in hock?
Fearful of the postman's knock?
Gentle reminders stacking up?
Red lettered demands backing up?

Striving for a happy ending,
To cease this senseless spending?
Over that credit card you've just signed
Instantly returned, discredited, declined?

Here's what I've hard learned;
Don't spend what ain't earned,
Before those bankers block it
Take that card out of pocket.

Time to lift the curse
From wallet or purse,
No more living on the edge,
Time to stop the haemorrhage.

Withdraw that piece of plastic,
We're gonna do something drastic,
No more will you nonchalantly swipe it,
You owe a debt to yourself to wipe it.

Here's my last card tip-
This card must get the snip,
Grab scissors or pinking shears...
This is gonna end in tears...

Time to grab a pair,
It's time to end this affair,
When you're behind the eight ball
It's the unkindest cut of all.

Cut your bastard Master Card in two,
It's the only creditable thing to do,
Ain't no financial gain without pain;
Now, never play them cards again.

(Started off as a few throw-away lines of comment. But I just can’t leave bad enough alone. As my credit card statement shows.)

©Obbverse

Ding a ling goes the phone; Who’s gonna take it?

Unwelcome Call.

Donald had Brad Raffensperger dangling on the line,
Demanding the ashen Secretary of State do the divine,
'Conjure those non-existent votes and make 'em mine,'
Even for Brad this is beyond the pale, way over the line.

Brad looks at the phone with a disbelieving look,
Don demands another term, by hook or by crook,
Don's delusion of grandeur look clearly text-book,
You can't find nuttin' no matter how hard you look.

Fact is, Don believes petty illegalities are of no never mind,
Fact is, he'll blithely deceive, though theres no votes to find,
Fact is the tape shows Donald's imagination runs unconfined,
Fact is, no votes to be found mean Don's lost his flippin' mind.

©Obbverse

There’s no place like home for the wandering prodigal son.

Slack Off Gets The Brush Off.

I told Mother Dear I'd drop in on Christmas Day,
What I neglected to say is 'Ma, I'm home to stay,'
Would she welcome a son broke, busted, divorced and thirty
Whose spouse has locked him out 'cause he'd done the dirty?

She listened silently to my sad well-worn tribulatory tale,
It's my Christmas tradition, regular as the Sears Roebuck sale,
And I expect she understands I've arrived here empty-handed-
She'd get her present when my unemployment cheque landed.

Mother knows her misbegotten son is a low-down louse
So she laid down the heavy ground rules of the house,
'You better keep more than just your nose clean, Buster,'
I guess her once Golden boy has lost his old lustre.

When the whole family came over I enjoyed Ma's fine meal,
Those many brandy and port toasts I savoured, a great deal,
I farewelled the family with air kisses and best wishes 
Then went for a power nap while Ma did the dishes.

I lay abed, my heavy head dizzied by all the drink
But ears not dulled enough to not hear the distant clink
As Mother stacked up the multitude of dishes to dry,
Then hear 'Oh my son, my son,' and she began to cry.

Staying sat at home with Ma proved tryingly  hard,
She said I'd best sweep up the shed, out in the back yard 
Since she won't open the door should I invite in the guys
Nor if I should try staggering in sometime after sunrise .

Ma's nagging kept dragging on all through New Year's day,
'My son, my son, get up and haul that dry old tree away,'
She'd taken down the old fading blinking lights
That had lit up a litany of past Christmas nights.

She'd unwound the twisted tinselled trappings of old,
The fraying strands of tarnished silver and dusty gold,
Boxed up the tree top angel, so well past her prime-
She's seen in far too many parties o'er Christmas time.

'Place those precious decorations in the Santa sack,
Put it up in your wardrobe, in place of your backpack,'
I'd say she made her New Year resolution perfectly clear,
'My son, my son, come Valentines Day, you're outta here.'

I drugged out the tree, both of us destined for the chop;
Did the carpet of needles make her sorrowful eyes drop?
Sighing, she began to run around the littered living room
Muttering over her venerable over-the-hill whining vacuum.

My burning ears faintly discerned 'Oh my son, oh my son,
Next Christmas please just present me with a nice new Dyson,
Or a Hoover, Electrolux, Roomba or Miele, I really don't care-
My son, who don't pick up a thing, just sucks and blows hot air.'

©Obbverse

(Based NOT on myself but very loosely on the Stephen King ‘character’ Larry Underwood in ‘The Stand,’ which I’m gamely re-reading after the Covid year?!?)

Play time is all but over, but the tosser is still tossing his toys out of the playpen.

Mar-a-LaGoose Nursery Rhyme Time.

The clown is counting down the fading hours, his mood- none too sunny,
His spouse is confiding with her briefs, talk of divorce, acrimony- money,
He's made his tiny mind up to drag down Democratic ideals before he goes-
Pardon his bad, then he'll recast his ex-best GOP friends as his darkest foes.
‘Mitch McConnell? Brian Kemp? William Barr? I want a word.’

©Obbverse