It’s time to kick one of the Classics; Poe’s heavy-on-the-dread ‘The Raven’ is overdue a take-off. Or a piss-take.

(Written for Chel Owen's Terrible poetry contest- easy rules; basically use the first line of a well known poem and then put your twisted spin on it.)

The Rottenest Ever Hangover. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
After many a gin sunken I'm found slumpen 'pon the floor,
Dryly heaving, stomach clenching, regretting my night out wenching,
'Twas all quite gut-wrenching but I've known of its ilk before,
Muttered I, 'I'll go out and get pissed- pie-eyed no more,'
Murmuringly, for my skull be ever sore.

Ah, painfully in a head most tender I remember 'twas quite the bender;
E'en as each clang of pain in my brain rings down to its sodden core,
Uneasily recalling that I and that barfly signora put away a plethora
Of gin, oodles of Boodles* resulted in a night of sin worthy of Gomorrah,
Now that fair maid lies sleepily sated, a beauty without flaw,
Yet I shudder at her ev'ry snore.

Oh, the pain, teeth gritting, hard hitting, never quitting, head splitting,
In the mirror, pale and pallid I see the sorriest wretch you ever saw,
Aye, red rimmed eyes a' gleaming, the mind silently screaming-
I, a drunk with liver past redeeming, 'twill take a miracle to restore,
Oooh, but I'll drag myself to that familiar door-
One I've slammed behind me a time or two afore-
And retake the AA pledge once more.

*Boodles, a fine old English gin, one I'm still quick to recommend - but best take it slooowly, in moderation.  


A couple of nursery rhyme-style offerings about some p(r)etty beautiful people.

(For Chel Owens Terrible Poetry Comp/ Nursery Rhyme parody.)

Giving Chris a Hand.

Will, he had a little slap,
Rock reeled back from the blow,
Will wouldn't say 'Chris, shut your trap;'
To no more Oscars Will he go.

‘Will Smith ironically rockin’ out the peace sign.’

Jack And Ill Will.

It was ON
'Tween Amber and John,
Their freakshow-biz deal Deppinitely over.

After many years,
Crossed words, crocodile tears
Their lawyers settled, finally in the clover.

‘He said, Heard said- sounds like a Horror show.’

(After a further painful five minute watch of this farcical court room dramedy, I was less inspired than in despair. So why not spit out another one?)

Poorly Playing Out.

Jack Sparrow and ex-wife had a spat, 
'Twas nasty, vicious, mendacious and mean,
Between 'em both I swear on my oath
I've ne'er seen anything so X-Ratedly obscene.


A quick re-view of the absolute mother of slasher flicks. Oh, the Hitchcockian horror!

Mother And Sonny Boy.

Here's a classic story of a road trip gone sadly wrong,
Set back in those innocent ol' days for which we long,
Let's start with pretty Marion Crane, our bird in flight,
Running from the ugly truth, she's a thief in the night.

She's put behind her an honest life and the Phoenix sun,
Grabbed a golden opportunity to take the money 'n' run.

But for Marion this guilt trip becomes a mental ordeal,
Though she travels alone, second thoughts start to steal,
First, black clouds gather above, deeply darkening her day
Till a shower impels here towards a motel, an overnight stay.

(What rotten luck for a poor sodden waif in dire straits-
Well, she'll get a nice warm reception from Master Bates.)

Marion kindly accepts the door key Norman proffers her,
Dutifully signs an assumed name on the dusty motel register,
Norm's eyes dance when she gazes wide-eyed round the lobby,
Dead birds transfixed everywhere; taxidermy's Norm's hobby.

Norman sees the comely Miss Crane as a most attractive guest,
He dreams of bedding her, she dreams of bed too- only bed rest.

He wonders if the Fates had drawn them to one another,
But is she really the girl he should introduce to Mother?
After some words and a sandwich she retires for a shower,
Norm trudges home, wondering if Ma's still up at this hour?

Are Ma's tight apron strings less a comfort than tether?
Sighs, knows they're stuck together, two birds of a feather.

Marion steps into the shower, for to wash her sins away,
Come morning she'll return, to whatever debt she must pay,
Ready for ten hard years if so harshly judged by the Court,
But not considering capital punishment- perish the thought!

But Norm's Mom won't cut Marion no slack, that's for certain;
Quickly, cut away, wrap up the evidence in the shower curtain.

Norman suspects his dear sweet Mom has gone berserk
Norm loves his Mom, but boy, she makes for hard work,
Now Normie does what any mother loving son would do,
Flipping from motel manager to frenzied clean-up crew.

Norman scrubbed at them bloody tiles with Vim and vigour,
Whatever had possessed Mom he confessed he couldn't figure.

Into Miss Cranes '57 Ford goes Marion's body of evidence,
So, Norm, where to hide a hot Ford and its cooling contents?
A swamp on the property ends Norman's hidden troubles,
The '57 slowly settles in the silt, gently blowing bubbles.

But Marion's Sis, lover, and private eye Arbogast are on her trail-
Norman feels protective of his Mom, so old and mentally fu frail.

Norman feels obliged to tell them he's not seen hide nor hair
Of the missing Miss Crane- truthfully, so far as he's aware,
He'd not seen her face, swears she's not set foot in the place,
'Perhaps only a free spirit could fly off and not leave a trace?'

Eagle-eye private eye Arbogast spies the register's latest name;
Strange, if 'Mary' ain't 'Marion,' why's the handwriting the same?

Now Arbogast sees guilt in Normie's twitchy nervous manner;
Like when he asks if he might speak with the lady of the Manor?
Arbogast sneakily returns, hoping Mother will sing like a bird-
Had Arby never heard, with Norman's Mom, never a bad word?

Arbogast is one hard-boiled PI, sad he's not sharp as a knife,
(I'd not get Norm's mother mad at me, not on my sweet life.)

Boy, has sweet gentle grey haired ol' Mother Bates changed!
She's gone from quietly truculent to completely deranged!
Alas, poor Arbogast, he feels in his heart, deep in his chest
The killer in this crime is one only Freud could've guessed.

Another poor body down for the count, wrapped for despatch;
Ma's either ridin' the lightnin' or bouncin' in the booby hatch.

With Arbogast gone Sis Lila and lover boy question Norm,
With every shifty Bates evasion Lila's suspicion further form,
Lila slips off to talk to Mother while the two men converse-
Both conversations are bound to go from bad to worse.

Normie ends all the chat by whackin' lover upside the head,*
Wow, if Norm catches Lila with Mom, this conversation's dead.

(Nowadays, in these times of 'Elm Street' 'Scream' and 'Creep'
We know the heroine's gonna end up in shi excrement deep
If she runs upstairs to the attic or down here to the fruit cellar-
But back in 1960, who in their right mind was left to tell her?)

Could a little old lady do a strong young woman much harm?
Ask lil' sister, in an underwater Ford, deep down on the farm.

Lila stepped into the fruit cellar, and into her living nightmare-
Who was that, sat deep in the shadows in a bentback chair?
Seeing Mom off her rotten face left Lila gasping and petrified,
A boys love for Mom ain't enduring when Ma's half mummified.

Yet Momma lives on, or at least lives on as Norman in drag,
In skirt, slip and wig Norm transforms into a wiggy ol' bag.

Norm/Mom's caught by hard headed Sam, lover of Marion;
In 1960 a cross-dresser/killer** was not the normal carry on,
Herr Doktor may well work wonders in fixing Norm's brain
But no-one can ever put Marion Crane back together again.

Now Norm's put away, wouldn't hurt a fly, a gnat he'd not annoy,
But who resides still, stuck in the mind of that crazy mama's boy?

*End of heavy discussion; wake with light concussion.
**Yes, let's say 'cross-dressing slash killer'. Why not?
‘Guess who turns out to be Mothers little helper? Or, like me and Marion, did you not see it coming either?’


When you get sick, sometimes even you just can’t help yourself.

Tweet Pray Loaf; Living Within The Quarantine Staycation.

I'm done quarantining at home, living here in fear,
Today I've not got COVID, my snot runs near clear,
I'm done with home rest,
I've passed my RATS test,
All my systems are 'Go,'
I'm Negative when I blow,
No more sterile swizzle sticks, to get up the nose of;
No gross sticky issues, icky green tissues to dispose of.

For seven long days I've lived no better than a leper,
Avoided social interaction like a Doomsday prepper,
Now I can put aside high anxiety,
Welcome to rejoin our sick society,
Since I dodged the funeral shroud
I wanna stand out in the crowd,
Now I can't bear to be stuck a single day at home alone
In the company of the most miserable bastard I've known.

‘Hey, I’m outta isolation, don’t look at me like I’m some nasty infection.’


I’m being a bit distant socially and media-wise lately. Soreeee.

Focus Issues.

Excuse my poor response to all who've posted,
Don't feel lost, abandoned or- God forbid- ghosted,
These last few days I find all my good humor's gone,
I guess I'm just not happy to be entertaining Omicron.

Between my tiresome bellyaches and pains
Short sharp temperament and long migraines,
Red snotty nose, sore ribs through coughing fits
I'm sick as a kicked dog- ain't that the puppyshits?

How hard we'd tried to keep ours a non-toxic household,
So I'll admit then testing positively made my blood run cold-
Masked up religiously, prayed God keep Covid from our door,
A positive outlook? well, no worries about catching it anymore.

Now I'd (better) thank my sweet spouse- best wife ever!
She soothes my fev'red brow, so I hold no ill will whatsoever-
Tho' viral transmissibility from her Nursing Facility brung it home;
(I'm such a shit patient she sez I'm her 'lil' Irritable Bowel Syndrome.')

She scoffs 'basic man flu,'
So I snap 'Sexist and untrue!'
Does it simply never occur?
Obviously I'm sicker than her!

I wake brimful of mucous, with a fuzzy unfocused brain,
My mind tracks back on the same track again and again,
Foggy thoughts goin' round 'n' round on an endless loop...
I'm of half a mind I'm repeatedly stuck on an endless loop...
Was that just deja vu or did I mention a flippin' endless loop?

Moaning in my sick bed, phone slipping 'twixt slick hands,
Cain't comment on fresh posts like a good host demands,
So 'scuse me while I sourly swab away the night's sweat,
Till I'm upright my tired 'Like' is 'bout the best you'll get.

                                 'There's 'under the weather' and then there's 'pretty snotty''             


First Putin sets foot into Ukraine- so then the big Western boys take out their business from the Russian market.

Appetite For Destruction.

President Vlad Putin went off on a Righteous war
Like many a mad Right dictator has done before,
And though 44 million Ukrainians maligned him
Millions more Russians rallied right behind him.

Most know Vlad's always had a long-term agenda;
If he had a heart, 'twas stone, not warm and tender,
When the Iron Curtain fell, up sprung a warmonger,
In Vlad's eye-spy eyes still burns a powerful hunger.

But for sad Vlad his war games gone wrong, not right,
In Old Petrograd Western sanctions have begun to bite,
If the proletariat can't fill up on Pepsi, Coke 'n' Big Macs
Someone might be tempted to take out the old battle axe.

                                     'See ya later, dictator.'

(Starbucks are bailing out of Russia too, but they can have ’em; who needs the dregs?)



Silly six word book and film summaries and/or plot points.

A change-up from the usual rhyming stuff; hey, who doesn’t need to break out now and then?

1/ Alice Through The Looking Glass... Alice falls down, goes to Crazytown.
2/ Wuthering Heights...  Cathy's unhappy home, Heathcliffe's moody manor.
3/ Moby Dick... footloose old sailor, avast! Whale tale.
4/ Fifty Shades Of Grey... modern bodice ripper; boy mistreats girl.
5/ Silence Of The Lambs...  Hannibal offers Clarice a gristly story.
6/ Frankenstein...  Doc makes monster- goes on fritz.
7/ The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon... lost girls nightmare. Tough to bear?
8/ The Bible... Big Fella's best seller. (Popular Fiction.)
9/ It's Not About The Bike (early pre-fallen hero Lance Armstrong ego-boosting bio)...  drug pedaling Tour De Fraud loser.
10/ The Three Musketeers... Three musketeers? Add D'Artagnan, go fourth!
11/ Psycho... Crane gets stuffed at Moms Motel.
12/ The Help... recipe for disaster; fudging the ingredients.
13/ Falling Down... trafficking in misery; white collar crime.
14/ The Iron Lady... Right warmongering steely cold Falklands bitch.
15/ Die Hard... Secret Santa presence-party's a blast!
16/ The Shawshank Redemption... prisoner stonewalled, comes to inescapable conclusion.
17/ 1917... war is hell, takes- interminably long.
18/ The Lake House... love letters, years late. Silly stuff.
19/ Titanic... couple meet over icebreaker. Chilly stuff.
20/ The Shape Of Water... oddballs hookup, love wins. Gilly stuff.
21/ ET: The Extra-Terrestrial... alien lands, makes friends, heartwarming stuff.
22/ The War Of The Worlds... aliens land, make war, snuff it.
23/ Alien... spacemen versus monster; Dream Weaver's nightmare.
24/ Jurassic Park... long-lost resort revived, guests left enRaptored.

Any more to add? put 'em in the comments, the more the merrier!

"War And Peace' is doin' my head in- and these are just the Cliff notes!?'


Birthday boy Boris Johnson, the life and asshole of the party. Some surprise!

Birthday Bash For Boris.

(A tale of an honest work place mistake-
Staying a brilliant PM is no piece of cake.) 

Poor put-upon Boris, what a pickle he's now in,
Sweet wifey Carrie threw a birthday bash for him,
Just one teensy rum cake and ten jeroboams of gin,
Pity, coz cause for further celebration is growing slim.

Hateful face masks came off for a while-
Better to see Boris's boozy grateful smile .

Number 10's gained a reputation as a party address,
A place of broken bubbles, then long lingering regrets,
It's the latest party Bo will have left in a Right old mess,
Boris, your partying's over, here comes the cold sweats.

BoJo swears blue it was alllll work related-
Oh, we'll see, once Sue Gray has investigated.

Now, since some party pooper has called the Old Bill* in
Will Bo blow hard as usual, or lie low and shut his cakehole?
Everyone but Mr Magoo* can see BoJo's an unmasked villain-
A crim can't be in charge of number 10 or stay on the electoral roll.

*Old Bill; Brit slang for the police, the plod, the cops and rozzers.
**AKA Jacob Rees-Mogg; big fawning follower and fascist fan of Boris.

   ‘So, who cares about piddling rules?’


Sadly, Meatloaf is done. He’s off to another, who knows, better place?

Last At Bat.

The Bat out of Hell man bids us 'goodnight,'
It's time for that last final flight,
So set the Bat signal and the Radar transponder
And fly off into the wild black yonder.

(A slightly tongue in cheek obit. I'm sure Mr Marvin Aday wouldn't mind.)

'OK, now: Do I fly up- or down? The Hell if I know.'


Boris Johnson apologises again- but to be fair, he does have an awful lot to be sorry about.

Back story: Tory party staffers were invited to an 'after work' bring-your-own-booze garden party at Number Ten Downing Street. 'Come and enjoy a convivial drinkie-poo or two in the close company of your kind of people whilst the hoi poloi are lawfully obliged to stay locked down in their common little homes.' 

Pity Party/'Faux Sorry.'

Boris's party invitation is clandestinely extended,
To us, his 'special' friends, behind Number 10's closed door,
There we can mingle, unmasked as God Boris intended,
Because we're Upper Class, Eton, drinking, above the law.