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.)
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.
Jolly merry Christmas again draws near
Filling me with nausea, not good cheer,
For for fifty- one weeks I've slaved away
To pay for last years 'happy' holiday.
I've had miserable luck with lottery draws-
My best bet's on that real long shot Santa Claus,
My kiddies belief on him remains unshaken,
Is it only me the mean old codger's forsaken?
Santa please add me to your delivery list,
Lately I've been the one you've somehow missed,
This good ol' boy has been good, so why is it
You cain't once favour me with a flying visit?
And I need some of your largesse, believe you me
To help me survive the annual spending spree,
Leave me some goodwill when you grace our place,
Say, something crisp and green, in an attache case?
You well know, Santa, the poor year I've had,
The kids were so good, the 'conomy so damn bad,
I asked the boss for a rise, reflexively he resisted,
Hopefully Father Christmas won't be so tight-fisted.
But I can't complain, though hours and money's down,
Covid's left my once buzzing office like a ghost town,
So one wrong word and my white Christmas turns black,
My Boss would secretly, Santa like, love to gimme the sack.
On Christmas day, shall my offsprings eyes shine?
Happily they will, but not nearly as tearily as mine,
'Cause in this poor house Santa has not yet set foot,
No filled stockings on the fireplace, no trace of soot.
The gifts arrayed there are the few I've hard bought-
Plus, Walmart saw me coming, bastards sold me short,
Mine eyes will be red and running, my cheeks dripping wet,
Again my no-show Santa will drop me deep in the shi debt.
(One dragged up from the vaults, plus an updated verse- because of the year we've all had.)
A Bad Sad Case.
Rudy Giuliani has really really tried
To turn this election to the Dark Side.
Rudy G's dredged up all the dirty tricks,
He's tossed a heap of hogwash into the mix,
He's awash with gesticulations and facial tics,
He's tried High courts, base appeals, but nothing sticks,
As the year wends his cracked dry lips he nervously licks,
Looking at his briefs he's sweating bullets and shitting bricks.
Every lousy case he brought has been DENIED,
Now Rudy's as ruddy-faced as an expectant bride.
His fart fatuous claims come fast and thick,
The sweat sluicing off his pate, like an oil slick,
Which makes sense, since Rudy is obviously sick;
His eyes behold the fevered gleam of a raving lunatic,
Yet the most unpardonable Republican since Tricky Dick
Needs immunity well into into next year- or another little prick.
Takeaways From Thanksgiving.
It's the family tradition, every Thanksgiving Day,
The clan all gathers here come near, come far away,
Holding hands, around the turkey together they pray.
Next year there will be less left to give thanks-
The Lord alone knows why He's thinned the ranks;
It's sad and lonely scanning these photos, seeing blanks.
(Not in the best taste after a hearty Covid Thanksgiving get-together, I know.)
Head In Our Hands.
At sixty years God has substituted Maradona,
No more muddy fields, he's off to a higher honour,
No dribbling then blowing past defenders any more-
He always had a nose for goal- and a damn good score.
For the true unblinkered unbiased football fan
There was no finer player than the wee Argentinian,
It's only the red white and blue 'uns of Old Eng-er-land
Who'll still send you off on your way with a heavy hand.
(one for the football fans. Some still recall the infamous 'Hand of God'. Don't we?)
Living The Wild Life?
I'll never again fly Alaskan Air,
Not if you made me a millionaire,
If the flight alone wasn't a nightmare
The crappy landing was too much to bear.
Dicey icy touchdowns in the middle of nowhere?
Alaskan Airlines happy landings are mighty rare,
But there was nothing on that safety card to prepare
Us for seeing a bear using a runway as a thoroughfare.
So I'll be demanding a total refund on my fare,
Plus costs for trauma, shock and new underwear,
And could we spare a thought for that gristly bear?
A wing ding of a departure; poor bear hadn't a prayer.
Wanna make our hero an anti-hero?
Try the four lines below as the opening verse.
The wife's nagging drove me to despair,
There are no burning embers lingering there,
So I hooked up and lit out with the air-headed au pair
But red-blooded animal behaviour crushed our holiday affair.
A Real Tear Jerking Soap Opera.
Ever since blow-dry Don woke post election day
The Golden Boy's looked washed out and gray,
And though he will not go quietly into the night
To see this ass silver fox turn tail is a welcome sight.
What happened to our old gold Don Juan Don?
A cold reality shows his brash charm has gone,
And after four seasons his shit show is simply trying
And his is a stinker of a final act, ain't no denying?
Don's lost his "Suburban Housewives' Choice" popular vote,
This poor actors star turn is done, and that's all she wrote,
He's lost his gloss, he's now less desirable than Charlie Sheen,
Our Greatest li'l boy lost burnt-out washed-up broken down big time small screen has-been.
Say A Spittle Word?
Today we're here to see Pete Sutcliffe go west,
The charitable say 'God only takes the very best,'
So, before someone sets down this thorny wreath
Who wants to pay tribute, before Pete's laid beneath?
Or toss a clod on the casket, as per popular request?
Let us pray in the hope Pete has a long uneasy rest
In his interminable internment as Lucifer's house guest,
There's not a welcoming devilish smile, merely clenched teeth;
Pete promised the devil his due, but Pete had nought to bequeath.
Poor Devil, getting stuck with an ass soul he forgot he possessed.
James Bond- The Final Cut.
The great Sean Connery has gone to the great beyond,
Hung up his holster, laid down his gun, gone to his eternal rest,
Few dispute Sean portrayed the perfect classic Bond,
Sorry, Danny Craig, but there's no shame in being second best.
With the on-screen arrival of Sean
A double zero hero was born,
The second Bond was David Niven
So a Royale disappointment was a given,
Next up George Lazenby gave Bond a shot,
Like Lazenby's 'career' best quickly forgot,
Then came rakish roguish Roger Moore-
Uh oh, seven bombs, each worse than the one before,
Eventually Timmy Dalton replaced ol' Rog on the bill,
Twice stepped into Bonds shoes- two, run of the mill,
Then they lined up Pierce Brosnan to don the tuxedo
Of the serial seducer with the long-lasting libido,
Three quick Bonds and Pierce was spent,
Seems in a flash he came and went,
Now Daniel Craig's just the latest stud to put it about...
It's high time Fleming's played out Bond is written out.