The Grand Old Soap Opera. I thought I'd briefly watch to see who'd be elected, Though half the time cable shows show total trash, But, switch left or right, whichever station I selected I found I was watching a classic American car crash. I shoulda coulda thought; Poor show. This pointless tragicomedy dragged on into the night, An all-too-familiar nonsensical plot, at a turgid pace, After my all-night marathon, no tiresome end in sight; It's a travesty of television to try to call this crawl a race. Long and overwrought. Sooo slow. Time had shown the car crash morphing into a train wreck, All happening in full painfully and frighteningly slow motion, So I turned off, tuned out, dropping the remote on that dreck, I'm no Einstein but I now know time standing still is no notion. Well and truly taught. I know. Now I wake up and see more molassesly moving melodrama, The dark reality being I wish I was back in the land o' dreams- I'm stuck deep in a GreaT stalemate as, quietly, Biden and Obama Watch Donny perform- no, it's not over while the fat boy screams. Order in the Court? Oh no.
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.
So, the Brazilian President has a teeny touch of the flu.
Both green and red-faced, but consumptively battling through.
‘Simply donning a mask could’ve protected me- and you?’
Now he thinks wrapping a mask over his mouth is the right thing to do?
He could have picked the itchy nose he had as his first clue;
He sees the look in the grave eyes of his masked medical crew.
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.
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.
When God- and a good photo opportunity calls
Don beats a path to St John’s soot-stained walls
Where over those peaceably gathered a shadow falls.
Here’s where his political salvation may be found,
Don feels the need to make a stand on holy ground;
Strange, when odds are he’s downward bound.
Donald might not have bent a knee in years
But see him wave that bible as the smoke clears,
Christ alone knows this disservice will end in tears.
What Numbers Really Count?
Fly high that flag,
Strike up that band,
Don don’t wanna brag
But ain’t US grand?
‘Merica still is Number One
When totting up the covid tally,
But don’t sum up, the fun’s just begun
As Dons supporters begins to rally.
Combine Britain, Italy and Spain
And USA stays top o’ the heap,
‘Merica beats Brazil by twice again,
But that’s a record Don can keep.
He’s unbelievably willing and able
To show us he’s a gen-u-ine genius,
Red based and so rock solidly stable;
So he oh so incessantly tells us.
In Donald’s Disunited States
Since this ‘little flu’ took hold
US surpassing all mortality rates
Ironically left many Don supporters cold.
Respectfully dropping standards to half-mast
Don knew what he had to do,
Donald acted, and acted fast
By opening up and smiling through.
But don’t you feel danged proud,
thrill chill your mortal soul
To repurpose Old Glory as a funeral shroud,
Helping hide a Memorable veterans toll?
One hundred thousand covid dead,
And lo, that number’s growing,
Unmasked, unchecked, see it spread
fu fickle winds a’blowing.
Through Don’s impressive leadership
The sad bad numbers keep on rising,
Don won’t let his impassive mask slip.
Figures; he’s quite adept at disguising.
Donny has surpassed the highest test,
‘Merica must always takes first place,
Amongst Don’s GreaT people he’s the best,
Their truly exceptional special case.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Don stands shadowed by his flapping flag,
Teary of eye, tremulous of hand,
These numbers do make his shoulders sag-
He’ll never get his ball out of the sand.
White House Woes.
‘Dear Mr President, it grieves me to say
I’m sick, so won’t be in to serve today,
I’m ever so sorry,’ your favourite valet-
‘It’s a case of Covid, I’m positively afraid.’
‘My dear Mr Vice-President Pence
I’m sick too, so you’ll have to dispense
With my dealing with the Press’s comments,’
Fake regards, Katie Miller, Press Aide.
‘Dear Ivanka, it’s your Personal Ass here,
I can no longer kowtow to your every need, I fear,
I do hope I’ve not spread more than good cheer.’
‘Good luck,’ your gofer/dogsbody/dress maid.
Brother Brian’s Economic Revival Show.
Governor Kemp’s sweatin’ on gettin’ Georgia’s economy going,
Some may even justifiably say Brian is in a damned awful hurry,
He wants to get cash flowing even as Covid cases keep growing,
Being morally bankrupt means spreading death’s less of a worry.
‘Buy that first Big Mac, spring for a tat, slug down that latte,
Go Mall strolling, go ten-pin bowling, grab that full massage,
Catch up with old friends, plan for a weekend long party,
Invite in-laws, outlaws, gather together the entire entourage.’
Governor Kemp’s decision has been peremptorily made,
Kemp’s health experts advised him to go slowly but surely,
But his wealthy cohorts exert the upper hand, I’m afraid;
Will Quickdraw come to rue playing his hand prematurely?
Second Opinion, Please.
First Doctor Don recommended Chloroquine
To save your ass from Covid nineteen,
Now he’s found another cure for our plight,
It came to him in a flash of ultra-violet light…
All you need is disinfectant in a syringe-
It’s a cure to make Doctors Fauci and Birx cringe,
Who but Snake Oil Don would one have expected
To conjure a cure from Lysol intravenously injected?
Now Doctor Don’s prognosis I do rather doubt,
A dose of covid and Lysol and and you’re wiped out,
No, I will reject the advice of Doctor Tangerine,
It’s more kill or cure than quick and clean