Jerry Lee Lewis, wayward rock and roll genius, moves onwards and upwards; Perhaps?

Two Sides Of The Coin.

Gracious me, Jerry Lee Lewis could put on a show!
It's a miracle his smokin' hot piano didn't catch fire!
Lee could sit down at any damned honky-tonk and tear it up
Or stand up at any staid Church Dance Hall and burn it down.

But now Jerry Lee, The Killer, has played his last show,
The time has come to judge the guy who played with fire,
Will Saint Pete say 'the Boss says 'let that Bad Boy step on up?"
Or 'Lee, He's reviewed your record- sorry, He's turning you down.'


OK, it is still a bit raw but it is said tongue in cheek, and as Jerry Lee would most likely say, 'the Hell with it.'
(Theme song for this post, in the circumstances, can't help but be 'A Whole Lot Of Shakin' Going On,' by the bad boy himself.)


Blink and you’ll miss Miz Liz. (A few flitting words on Liz Truss’s well overdue departure.)

Number Ten And Counting.

Which latter day Tory leader ranks worst?
Big Party-goer Boris's bubble soon burst,
But for three crazy years he'd partied on,
Aren't those left Rightly glad he's gone?

Liz Truss lasted barely a month and a half?
One doesn't know if one should cry or laugh,
Liz bit the dust and quit in six sad weeks;
How the tears roll merrily down my cheeks.

Three scant years seems the average tenure
Before for your Tory PM it all turns to manure.

So Truss packs it in after a bolloc rollicking 45 days-
An ingloriously shorter stay than Theresa Mays,
Whoever the f- fickle Tories pick cannot be worse!
Pluck some worthy to put the Clown Car in reverse!

Blimey, whose slimy grimy hand arrises, unbidden
From the Conservatives festering unholy midden?*
Could it- is it Boris Johnson, come back for more?
Before you go Liz, lock and bar Number 10's door.

*Midden- British term for a junk yard, rubbish tip, a compost heap where old tools or past their use-by date heads of cabbages etc are abandoned to decompose; discarded, unwanted and mostly unlamented. Like Johnson and Trump best left dumped, NEVER to be disinterred.

‘And for Miz Truss, Number 10’s ever revolving door goes ’round and ’round’

(Theme song for this debacle just has to be the Beatles ‘Dizzy Miss Lizzy.’)


At Old Trafford the stage is set; the first act is a catastrophe but the poor show must go on. Sadly.

Same Old Trafford Same Old.
(Man U 1, Brighton 2.)

After last years disastrous run at Manchester Disunited
We had every expectation old wrongs would be righted,
Given the change of season, of luck, a change of boss
I had every reason to think we'd not kick off with a loss.

Oh, but NO, this year the boys start much like the year before,
Fu Flubbing two great chances my great gran could score,
But we saw defence, midfield, attack, three working as one-
What a crying shame 'twas Brighton showing us how it's done.

Old Trafford was our Theatre of Dreams just a decade ago,
Slowly it has become a regular Saturday shit Horror show,
Already another tough watch, with the whole season remaining,
Only fans of tragedy or farce will find this shoddy lot entertaining. 

‘Pull the curtain. Please draw the curtain. PLEASE.’


I’ve been recalling family tales lately ; misty maudlin mushy memories of the way we wuz.

Through The Glass Darkly.
Chet had a big-ass Ford Explorer, black as midnight,
His wheels afforded him freedom, were his dark delight,
So, when on a hot Phoenix afternoon, the sun at its height
To see he had locked his keys inside was a chilling sight.

Chet yanked at all four doors, heaved at the hatchback,
All windows wound up tight, 'nary the sliver of a crack,
Above, clear blue sky, below Chet's mood pitchest black,
Bro, time to step back, take a deep breath and a Prozac.

Now is the time to retain that cool detached air
Though its already a hundred and rising out there,
Just the knowledge that ignition key's one of a pair
And the other's at home started driving him spare.

Thank God, one heartfelt call to the AA shall provide
A key man to get you back into your pride and joyride,
Providing you've not let your AA membership slide?
Or your billfold and phone ain't locked safely inside?

His dark outlook zoomed past gloomy to black as jet,
Beyond onyx, ebony, obsidian- and then darker yet,
Don't cheerily say 'tomorrow's a bright new day!' to Chet
My bro wouldn't stop to think if he wound up upset.

Chet was left with no wallet, no funds, no phone,
Sweating on a Ford sitting in a 'No Parking' zone,
Up till now what remarkable restraint he had shown,
But that passing cop in his Cruiser had eyes of stone.

Getting yet another citation Chet could ill afford,
Especially since that last violation had been ignored;
Why lead a cop's eye to a smoky windowed black Ford,
To that indiscreet decal announcing 'Dooby on board?'

Chet had never been the most patient of men
So even after slow counting to a thousand and ten,
Trying to find calmness, channel long forgotten Zen
Breaking point was bound to be not 'if' but 'when.' 

He was not the kind of guy to be forestalled by locks,
Neither the time nor patience to think outside the box,
So I pity the Ford that unmovingly sits, smugly mocks;
Give Chet a handy loose rock and- opportunity knocks.

By the by, did I say Chet was an impulsive guy?
He roughly took aim, rocked back and let fly-
The rebound could've given him a glass eye- 
But his second speed ball was a cracking try.

In crashed the dark glass, out rushed that pent-up heat,
But his rash smashing of tempered glass he'll never repeat,
Daren't risk driving in the discomfort of shorts and bare feet
Now he feels such a pain in the ass sitting in the drivers seat.
‘Not the most logical nor rock solid thinking, Captain Chet.’

Boris Johnson’s walked away, but if you’re behind him, watch how you step.

Sick Bastard Puppy.

Boris once was top dog, but now he has had his day,
His old House has kicked him out, sent him on his way,
Bo has been relieved of his big dog role, his run is done,
This mad dog of an Englishman's had his day in the sun.

Boris has long felt, for him, your normal rules don't apply,
Up till now if Boris says the word- why, it cannot be a lie!
Now, like a whipped dog draggin' his ass, he'll go to ground
To lie, lick his balls wounds, but this sick pubby will rebound.

Boris bowed out of office with a jaunty 'Hasta la vista, baby,'*
Yet the fantasist in him still believes that maybe, just maybe
The Johnson has not been terminated, has not got the sack,
And just like 'The Terminator,' welcome or not, he'll be baack.

It's of no matter to him he's not invited to hold a party any more,
That most shun him as a pariah, like a leper with a running sore,
For Bo's simple appeal to loyal supporters has never been a handicap-
Makes a case he could come back- like Herpes, Chlamydia, the Clap?

*What else would the comical Boy Marvel say? something wise, statesman like?
Nah, not this befouler of the footpath that leads to Number 10.


Bye, bye Bonehead; Boris the Malingerer finally gets the hint.

Oh, Boo Hoo Bozo.

Hallelujah, praise be Sweet Jesus, and thank the Lord!
Let the whole country's church bells clamour and ring!
The prayers of thy long suffering flock Thou hast not ignored,
Join in the chorus of 'Swing Low,' and sing, Brother- sing!

God, whatever is the cause of this outpouring of relief?
From whence does this sense of joy and hope spring?
'Tis this welcome message from Boris, ere our High Chief,
Glory be, he's resigned, finally Bozo's done the right thing.

‘There is nothing quite as sad as the tears of a clown. Still, some enjoy seeing a pratt fall.’


Sonny Barger, long time Hells Angel, rides off to wherever the next destination may be.

Heaven's Gate.

High in the sky, where St. Pete bars the way
A fallen Angel is coming a 'callin' today...

Yep, easy ridin' sweet Sonny Barger has bitten the dust,
Now his entry application leaves St. Peter nonplussed,
For his rap sheet record makes one thing crystal clear,
Ain't no Angel like him been admitted for many a year.

So, St Pete has a tough call;
How hard did this angel fall?

Mister Barger's chances of slipping in are thin to slim,
It don't help having a Hells Angels patch slapped on him,
St. Pete is torn, trying to believe Sonny is a reformed soul,
Then again, Sonny's spent the best half of his life on parole...

Saintly sympathy Pete has always had,
But, on reviewing Sonny's case, too bad?

Now, in death as in life Sonny prefers deeds to debates,
So when Barger puts his weight behind the Pearly Gates
Suddenly Pete is physically facing Grievous Bodily Harm-
Sonny's record stretches as long as St. Pete's writing arm.

Should Pete fold, and wave him through?
Pete ponders, 'what would Jesus do?'

Obviously, Sonny up in Heaven is the stuff of nightmares,
So St. Pete trips the trapdoor that shoots Sonny downstairs,
Accomodation on the subterranean dev- level suits Sonny best,
Christ knows, Pete can't deal with this less than angelic guest.

‘C’mon Sonny, it says ‘Hells Angels’ on your jacket!’ 


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 suspicions further form,
Lila slips off to talk to Mother whilst 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?’