A Quiet Word, Gentlemen? The Chumpian Don and Challenger Joe Were set to go at one another, toe-to-toe, Big mouthed Don took more than a little solace Knowing the judge would be foxy Chris Wallace. But after Don and Joe's first over-heated debate Which, from all most could hear, wasn't so great, Since Don, as usual only wanted to hear his side- Even Wallace's patience was well and truly tried. Donald tends to speak for too long and far too loud, You know, the usual rants to his rabble aroused crowd, Don ignored all rules of debate, every Wallace instruction, Just kept grinding on till Chris forced a POTUS interruption. So we were treated to the deciding round last night, Both tetchy parties warned to keep the fight polite, 'Two minute rounds before any point was disputed- Any button pushing trash talk and your mic's muted.' This time points were validly scored, both blue and red- The difference being we heard every bloody word said, If only we'd known, to get Don to butt out or back off Simply reach for the shut-up switch, just pull the jack off.
Showstopper. We struck it lucky on our last Las Vegas trip, There we saw an historic bit of showmanship, From our front row seat at Siegfried and Roy's We saw a Grand finale from those two old boys. They've entertained us all for untold years... So, now a touch less boyish than first appears; Note the lush leonine manes of layered dyed hair And those fixed faces, half botox, half Tupperware. As the big cats prowled their cages Roy rattled on, much as he's done for ages, The tigers bared their teeth, growling loudly 'Pussy cats in my hands' Roy thought proudly. I wonder, did Roy take his routine too lightly, pray? Perhaps the tiger wasn't feeling too bright that day? Call it overfamiliarity, call it a catastrophic oversight Whatever, Roy got a deep insight into a tigers underbite. After thousands of shows without an accident Into retirement, with wounded pride they went, The Mirage's management terminated their run Just because Roy entertained a bit of armless fun.
This tasteless offering was going to be for a short poetry prompt but it kinda sorta took on a larger life of its own. Perhaps, as Siegfried and Roy found, sometimes you can’t rein things in, it all starts to get away on us and before you know it everything’s running uncontrollably amok.
Well Run Dry.
I used to thrill
To raise the quill,
Words gambolled on and on;
I guess that thrill is gone.
Dyspraxic digits clubbed the keyboard,
Typos and good grammar ignored,
Ideas tumbled happily from the mind
As fingers fumbled, sentences behind.
I’d thought I had something to say,
An amusing pun, bandy some wordplay,
Double entendres, two-fingered typed fun,
Now it’s two thumbs down for this tragic one.
Joie de vivre weighs heavy in my head,
Even my black humour is all but dead,
Trying to dredge up some light flight of fancy
Would mean a lift of spirit worthy of necromancy.
To raise the odd smile was my glad intent,
Sad, all my good humour’s gone off and went,
Perhaps it’s for the best to to stay quietly depressed?
So I’ll do as weary old readers have and give it a rest.
(Just a touch of burn-out showing? Obviously. Overtly melodramatic? Yep. Self-pitying? Yessiree Bob. Maudlin? Yes indeedy. So, time for a little time out? Fuck yes.)
Pity Party At Egos Anonymous.
Sometimes when you wake up feeling sad and blue
On a rare blue moon when doubt bedevils even you,
When the wife’s heart feels cold, the future looks bleak
It’s time to lay your burden down and stand up and speak.
Don is prepared to bare his very soul- if he must,
Though heeding others opinion fills him with disgust.
‘Hello, my name is Donald and I’m a Selfish Neurotic,
Though those in my party prefer the term ‘quixotic,’
And now, as I think back on four hard fraught years
Thinking of a future past November brings me to tears.’
‘Why, suddenly no-one wants to be my Bestie?
Now all my good ol’ boys and Yes-men detest me.’
It’s a rare privilege seeing this side of Donald J. Trump,
In many a throat there his mawkish tale raises a lump,
There he stands, a broken man with his token friends
Ever deeper into self-pitying he maudlinly descends.
‘So, everybody dislikes me because of my personality?’
For once everyone freely agrees with Don, like, totally.
A day after another inauspicious red letter day-
150,000 Coronavirus victims went on their way-
Donald turns away from figures that make him squirm
And focuses his GreaT mind on securing a second term.
Dons polling is of concern, despite what he does say,
From where he sits perhaps its time to kneel and pray?
Or since Roger Stone’s now free to come up with a suggestion
He’ll open the whole Democratic Election system into question?
In his empowered position Don feels a powerful need to stay,
So now’s no better time to suggest just a slight election day delay,
An election free of mail voting, who could think of anything greater?
Like his Pandemic plan Don vows he’s bound to get to it, sooner or… later.
The Lords Calling.
This Coronavirus does not discriminate
Between the low sinner or the high saint,
For those shown the fickle finger of fate
Some truly believe they have reason for complaint.
In one Michigan nunnery the book tells a sad story,
Despite many a rosary rolled and crosses kissed
Thirteen nuns have been prematurely called to glory,
Thirteen unlucky brides of Christ, sadly missed.
A life of bending the knee to help fallen mothers,
A life where the Good Book is unfailingly right,
A life where sinful pleasures are reserved for others,
A nuns life is black and white and buttoned down tight.
Nuns who’ve spent many long years serving the Lord
In the hope of being taken- eventually- up to Paradise,
Vows of poverty and chastity for only promised reward?
Does ones poor grey short life seem one hell of a sacrifice?
Let us hope when one is consigned to earth
That ones belief remained eternally strong,
And let us pray, for what it’s damn well worth
That ones last thought ain’t ‘Jesus, was I wrong?’
(I do feel for the loss; Though I may not believe I can hope their belief is not misplaced.)
Wallace And Vomit.
Donald sat down to do another fawning Fox interview
But Wallace tried to keep Don on the straight and true,
Don responded with his usual pouting pique and rancour-
This was not the usual unctuous behaviour of a Fox anchor!
Chris had upset the finest of well-scripted double acts,
Swiftly Don back-handed Wallace his ‘alternative facts,’
Don was petulant, peeved pissed off and confounded-
No President willingly trots out onto Fox to be hounded.
Don doesn’t wish to to illuminate, he prefers dark misdirection,
To confuse, obfuscate, divide and misrule to wangle another election,
Leaving Don sweating in the spotlight ain’t what Chris is paid to do;
Donald’s memo strongly suggests a change in Foxes personnel is due.
Fly, My Pretties!
These are painful days
For those in aviation,
Passengers preferring home-stays
And stowing the vacation.
There’s hardly anyone flying,
There’s little cash flow,
Even with rebates applying
Where the Hell to go?
I’m not flying anywhere
El Cheapo fares or not
I daren’t fly Ryanair-
Certainly not fu- flying Aeroflot.
Thanks to Covid 19
People cain’t safely roam,
It’s weeks in quarantine
Or stay safe at home.
Littering up every airport,
Aircraft from every land,
Long haul Dreamliners, caught short
Flightlessly sit and stand.
Airbuses and Bombardiers abound,
There’s buttloads of big-as Boeings
Settling into the soggy ground,
ain’t no comings or goings.
Now travel’s reached an impasse
Retain all tickets and receipts,
Once the plane’s kicked off the grass
We’ll happily hold your seats.
Still, in the States
Passengers still take flight,
Despite soaring infection rates,
It’s their unrestricted Right.
There there’s no travel ban,
Fly off where’er you please,
Be a high-steppin’ travellin’ man,
Ignore that infectious sneeze.
Some refuse to be tied down,
Some have deadlines to meet,
At another place, another town,
Scything down from 20,000 feet.
So, fasten your safety belt,
Breath that recirculated air,
Offer up a prayer, heartfelt
That you’ve packed clean underwear.
Only a brave foolhardy few
Spread wings and fly,
If that someone is you
Good luck, and goodbye.
Roger Jason Stone, liar, dirty trickster and cheat,
Guilty of every damn charge on his long rap sheet,
Convicted of the sin of perjury by a jury of his peers,
A criminal who deserves to be sent down for years.
But no fear of confinement ol’ Roguish Roger faces
For Mr Stone has low friends in the highest places,
Although his complete culpability cannot be disputed
He just knows his just sentence must be commuted.
From looking at three years and four months in jail
Roger finds he doesn’t have to raise a sweat- or bail,
What a GreaT reward for the GOPs consummate liar,
Plucked out of frying pan, slithering back into the mire.
Now Don’s ‘Drain The Swamp’ cry has the ring of fiction,
‘Lock Her up!’ somehow lacks, unlike Roger, real conviction,
So run free, mean moody and Machiavellian Mr Stone;
But Don, know it’s by your creepy company you’re known.
Still, it gives you pause
To consider what would cause
Dodgy Don to cut a crook a even break-
Double-dealer Don, for philanthropy’s sake!
Sooo, why does Don feel the unjustified need to intervene,
Help Rog the Rat, who’s spent his life nose down the latrine?
Does Roger have some dirt on Don in his deep bag of tricks
For Donald to forgive the most unconscionable of pricks?
So, the Brazilian President has a teeny touch of the flu.
Both green and red-faced, but consumptively battling through.
‘Simply donning a mask could’ve protected me- and you?’
Now he thinks wrapping a mask over his mouth is the right thing to do?
He could have picked the itchy nose he had as his first clue;
He sees the look in the grave eyes of his masked medical crew.