Category Archives: Appetites

Isn’t Christmas great? I love the tradition, the gathering together of close family, the joyous imbibing. the gross consumption at the groaning table. Ah, good times.

Feastive Season, Festive Air.

That’s another Christmas meal complete,
Once again I’ve had far too much to eat,
Now here I sit, heavily settling in my seat,
Next, the dessert round, but first, the prickly heat.

I swore this year to avoid Ma’s tasty treat
But World Peace demands I keep her sweet,
And as the belt on my pants buckles in defeat-
Same ol’ story as last year, I’m bound to repeat.

The President grants a pardon for a turkey fated to be Thanksgiving dinner. How thoughtful, how humanitarian of Don. What a whopper it was too!

Tender Mercies.

Donald’s pardoned a turkey at Thanksgiving,
That bird can walk free and scratch out its living
Freed from thoughts of the chop and of harm,
Given free rein to range, down on the farm.

Donald knows this pardon is his Presidential right,
But he does possess a gross and base appetite,
To his ravening hunger he’s already succumbing,
Sadly, for one plucky turkey, Christmas is coming.

Donald has guaranteed to let that turkey strut-
But Don’s promise does come from with his but,
Stupid bird, to take Don’s solemn word on trust-
Just another turkey Donald’s stuffed and trussed.

Working through life’s surprising ups and downs, in a manner of speaking. Sadly, true story.

All (Out Of) Sorts.

I am never going to consume licorice ever again;
That sweet Dutch treat I can nevermore entertain,
Last night’s pack of All Sorts, now crumpled cellophane
Leaving me with cold sweats and cramping stomach pain.

I am never going to resume consuming licorice again,
This morning I daren’t stray far from my favoured domain,
My private retreat of stainless steel, white tiles and porcelain,
Were my cubicle further away I fear I couldn’t bear the strain.

I repeat, I’m never going to consume licorice again-
Every step’s a gamble between pot-luck and methane,
Now my appetite for Twizzlers I truly cannot contain,
Gimmie Montezumas Revenge and I won’t complain.

The Rolling Stones front man goes under the knife for a little bit of maintenance. Time waits for no man, Mick my boy.

Surgery For The Ol’ Devil.

Old Sir Mick just keeps on a’rolling,
Geriatric Mick prefers jiving to strolling,
But now, in his seventies his step’s begun to stutter
His high-living past has set his stony heart all a’flutter.

A dickey heart valve needs refurbishment
For Micks old ticker’s taken some punishment,
There’s no doubt when it comes to wear and tear
Micks plucky organ’s done more than its fair share.

Now the old pump is suffering from overuse,
But in Micks case it sure ain’t down to self abuse,
Cigarettes and bad habits have contributed to his current issues
But his old wives and girlfriends won’t be reaching for the tissues.

Savoring the Easter holidays, not hungering to return to work just yet. Yes, the sweet bliss of having time with the family. Such a treat!

Eggs Over Easy At Easter.

It’s our old and loved Easter family tradition,
It’s followed with an almost religious conviction,
We’ll gather round the table in a reverential hush
And look forward to a chocolate charged sugar rush.

There the eggs lay, dark, inviting;
Or the white rabbit, ready for biting.

Every member has an egg that suits them best,
Last year, I found my Reese’s egg too rich to digest,
This year I’m making heavy going of my marshmallow
Finding my annual sweet treat’s become a trial to swallow.

As it uneasily lies there, congealing
I’m bound to say I prefer a hollow feeling.

Off to his reward Cardinal Pell disgracefully goes, his pleas of innocence falling on deaf ears. Well, maybe his God may help him. Given considerable time.

Bad Faith.

Sorrowfully sitting in his cell
Is new inmate ex-Cardinal Pell,
Publicly his innocence he still professes,
Though to his God he quietly confesses,
‘Lord, it was only the occasional lap lapse;
Lord, hoping for celibacy is all well and good
But there’s little or nun of that in the priesthood.’

But from above, if He heard
There’s not been one little word,
He would have thought one-
The Father or His blessed son-
Or that ethereal wraith-
Would speak to a man of faith,
But yet, not one uplifting sound;
How loud Gods silence doth resound.

Now that Mr Pell has been solitarily confined
He has time to, unmolested, scour his mind,
One day is an eternity in this Hellish place,
Though being banged up in solitary is his saving grace,
George has gone from shooting the papal bull
To hearing a cardinals word is not indisputable,
And what he saw as an innocent Church affair
Is turning into his worst unfrocking nightmare.

A belated restaurant review of Cracker Barrel, Kingman, Arizona. One bite, and there goes the diet.

Travel Feedback.

By Kingman we were heartily tired of traveling and the take-out Big Mac
So we sat us down at Cracker Barrel, picked up a menu and kicked back,
We ordered us some vittles, and I settled on the junior pancake stack
When I saw a diner walk out with a doggy bag the size of a potato sack.

As the waitress gamely heaved it before me I heard the groaning table crack,
The portions plated up at Cracker Barrel make *Hungry Jacks look cheap-jack,
Bacon, pancakes, butter, maple syrup, or as they say in the US, a light snack,
You may think I’m joking, but believe me, I’m serious as a heart attack.

*Hungry Jacks in Australia, Burger King in the US.