Category Archives: Appetites

Strange how what is just and right evolves in the modern Trump world. I suppose it must be all a matter of perspective, or do we rely on blind faith? Sweet Jesus, who’s to know?

Above And Beyond.

Lawyer Mike Cohen was, confidentialy, not just a Donald fan,
When it came to private peccadilloes he was Dons Mr Fix-it Man,
But his quietly recording Don’s costly affairs wasn’t part of Don’s plan,
Poor Don, its hard to believe a lawyer  could be so Machiavellian?

To Donald’s defence the Righteous leap-
His learned counsel should his counsel keep.

His year-long tryst with Karen old Donald can richly afford-
Two hundred grand, another Playboy plaything cheaply scored,
On Don carried, the same year Melania had baby Barron on board,
There’s no more damning words of a cheating bastard on record!

Fox TV showers invective on Mike, ‘he’s a deceitful creep’
While Trump treads water in the swamp, so dark and deep.

But twenty years ago you should’ve heard their moralistic mewling
When slick Willy left Monica high and dry by saying they weren’t fooling,
While the twists and turns of Billy-goats oral gymnastics were unspooling;
Funny how now fiery talk of a flesh new Hell for adulterers is cooling?

Now for the Right God fearin’ folk, talk is cheap,
About today’s gross infidelities, not one damn peep.

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Getting wet and wild on your holiday/honeymoon. A bit of a cautionary tale.

Taken, With A Dose Of Salt.

The summer sun was dazzling bright,
The sea a’sparkling in the sunlight,
Not one solitary cooling cloud in sight
For honeymooners on the Great Australian Bight.

Up on deck after a hot ardourous night
Still this couple are feeling set to ignite,
Where, where to escape 100-degrees Fahrenheit?
The sea offers a cool promise of respite.

Skinny dipping is a sheer naked delight,
The seas ebb and flow sure to primordially excite,
But bare bodies are also sure to whet the appetite
Of Tiger, Tigers, Basking, a bloody Great White.

Sarah Huckabee Sanders and party go hungry at Red Hen Restaurant. Oh, the injustice.

You Can’t Always Get What You Want.

When Sarah Huckabee Sanders went out to eat
She had barely warmed her well-upholstered seat
When she felt compelled to return to the street-
Not even a doggy bag as a departure treat.

In these enlightened times who would dare
To toss a Southern belle from her dining chair?
Some old-time gents now say it’s a dark affair,
Suddenly discrimination is dreadful- when it’s not fair.

Whatever happpened to the democratic right
To indulge Ms Huckabees healthy appetite?
To refuse service to someone is damned impolite
WHEN they’re entitled, rich, Republican and white.

Presidential pardons, Kim Kardashian comes a’calling, but Don knows a bum deal when he sees one…

Hot And Cold.

Don’s dishing out presidential pardons willy-nilly,
Forgiving old felonious friends at will and at whim,
But mention faithful old Mueller and Don grows chilly-
Chances of Don forgiving Bob are infinitesimally slim.

Questions of his hot Stormy affair are also met frostily
As his ardour and memories of her mammaries begin to dim,
So Don won’t dismiss Ms Kardashians request as frivolously silly,
Though part of the deal will be having to twerk for it, Kim.

Allegations, indiscretions, gagging orders, the Presidents lawyer being looked at. Who knew a liaison between a player and a porn star could come -no pun intended- to this?

Getting The Clause Out.

Should Mr Cohen’s well-heeled client stray,
Forsake the vows stated on his wedding day,
Take the chance to combine both golf, and play,
Mr Cohen maintains what he’s been retained to say.

But Mr Cohen’s having to work for his pay,
Stormy’s accusations aren’t just blowing away,
Her tongue keeps wagging in a most malicious way,
His advice to the client is ‘assume the position, and pray.’

An Athletic Weirdo In London. A story that keeps on coming back to haunt me, you might say. (A bit of a companion piece to ‘Waking up in the morning with that dawning feeling.’)

Everybody Hates Lycra.

Most of the month I’m a good company drone,
Working assiduously away, like a dog with a bone,
But I’ve been cooped up in my little box too long,
The need to get out on a run was growing strong.

The spring sun was sinking like a bloody big ball,
But you’ve time yet to safely run before nightfall,
And tonight heralds the new moon, so big and bold
With its promise of gilding these grey streets in gold.

How mind and body yearned to be out of this cubicle,
To run free, unconfined ‘neath a moon bright and full,
It’s an old primordial feeling, this feeling, passing strange,
I loosened my tie, went to the rest room, began to change.

Down the stairs, access the door-
The security keypad is such a  chore-
Then the feel of the wind in my hair
As I lope along without worry or care.

Bounding easily along I enter the misty park,
I run without fear of being accosted in the dark,
I might meet the odd ner’do’well, up to no good
But there’s few fleeter than I in this neighborhood.

Soon the park and the streetlights are put behind me;
If I lost my way in these woods who could ever find me?
I thanked my lucky stars for the bright enlightening moon;
I’d met others in the dark past who’d met with… misfortune.

Then I spied someone who looks well off track,
Someone for whom things were looking black,
A lycraed cyclist, the personification of despair,
Astride his cycle, wearing a most deflated air.

He cursed his expensive cycle, he cursed his wretched luck,
He cursed the stupid tyre in which a stupid brad had stuck,
His little backwoods trail had proved to be a bit of a trial,
And I’ll admit I viewed his predicament with a wolfish smile.

I lurked in the shadow, but thanks to a stray moonbeam
I was seen, and the cyclist let loose a hair-raising scream,
He bounded off into the brush, and I followed that sound-
The man seemed to think he was being chased by a Hellhound.

Perhaps he saw the mean hungry look in my lean hungry face,
He led me a merry chase, and I felt compelled to up the pace,
He fairly flew up a creeks rocky bank with reckless abandon,
One ping of a hamstring, he won’t have a leg to stand on.

But he crested the ridge safely, and I then heard a splash,
I leapt in in pursuit but my chase rapidly turned slap dash,
It’s no fun for a werewolf watching his prey skedaddling-
Left up the creek, reduced to whining and dog paddling.

A month later and I shrug off work;
By a certain forest trail I bide and lurk,
And once again the trusty moon reveals
The athlete I think of as meals on wheels.

…………………………………………………………..

If you feel, some moonlit night
To wander out for a late nite bite
Don’t chase and wolf down a triathlete,
They’re sinewy, tough, and bound to repeat.
 

Barnaby Joyce is a true National treasure, a rare and engaging man of the land. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. But baby, this boy ain’t ever going to be voted ‘Father of the Year.’

Talking Into His Hat.

Privately Barnaby and Vikki do make a pretty pair;
Publicly Barnaby brazenly faces the public glare,
His amorous amoral view he is happy to share-
As a politician he wonders why his public should care
About his peccadilloes when they’re his private affair?