Official Police Escort.
On June 17, '94 Ford salesmen sat glued to the TV all day,
Every eye on a white Bronco, the show- 'Drive-by With OJ,'
Following cops on a long slow drive down the Five Freeway,
A free all-day live TV priceless product placement display
With not a hope in Hades of OJ making a quick getaway;
OJ deserved a one-off cheque, but hey- crime don't pay.
(Any opinions or actions attributed to bad actors riding shotgun in a Bronco were not endorsed or approved of by the Flawed Motor Company.)
(Part Two of The Flawed Concept trilogy, if that doesn't sound too pretentious.)
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The Flawed Concept.
Mr Ford viewed the tiny cars flooding in with fear,
Gutting sales of the gas-guzzlers Henry held so dear,
So into the new geeko-friendly no-smoking atmosphere
Henry trotted out his Pinto, with its pertly kicked-up rear,
So cheeky, chic and cheerful- and so cheap to engineer.
His Pinto putting dents in imports sales elicited a grin,
But making a profit on compacts means making 'em thin,
So, skinnier welds here, there, replace heavy steel with tin;
Ford's salesmen lightly told customers 'take 'er out for a spin,'
Is emphasising gas mileage over driver safety such a sin?
In harness with rising gas prices, sales of the sippy Pinto rose,
In his boardroom see, along with his profits, how his smile grows?
Until a rash of memos brought about a wrinkling of Henry's nose;
It's safe to say a Pinto's economy is great, as far as gas milage goes
But in a tail-ender one is not safe, as any crash dummy knows.
Was it a question of saving lives or saving on the cash?
Placing a gas tank waaay back was more dumb than rash,
The Pinto was a pain in the ass when in a nose-to-tail smash;
Percolating Pintos were hotly looked at by Police, Fire and Crash-
Hank's cheap-ass petty penny ante profits tanked, and in a flash.
(Mockery aside, a case of money over humanity. Apparently, for the sake of a few nickels and dimes per vehicle in producing these bombs cars Ford could have redesigned and alleviated the problem. Corporate cost-cutting at its best/worst. Ford lost a court case and paid through the nose.)
‘For Sale, Ford Pinto, cool retro classic, original Fire Engine Red paint.’
I'm a guy who needs his beauty sleep,
So if on my good sight side you wish to keep*
Just let me be, laid out, counting sheep,
Do Not Disturb and I won't raise a peep.
Lately my set routine's getting upset,
Our cat won't sleep once sun has set,
I'm lying in bed, smoking- sans cigarette;
He's a prize king-size pain in the ass pet.
Hark, I hear some cock crowing in the dark;
Rousing me at dawn shall leave its mark,
Who wants to see me, up with the lark
Slug gun in hand, prowling Peacock Park?
I've never been a sparkly-dewy-eyed early riser,
Now I meet the bright new day masked in a sun visor,
After ten I'll wearily start in at my usual appetizer,
A Starbucking black coffee, one strong tranquilizer.
*See Mr Muses comment below… I had to leave the evidence…
(I do love me a lie-in. But. This last week we have had the cat at the vet, and he’s been up at night, and since misery loves company he thinks we should share in his too. Nightly. So we- and our excreble adorable little Prince are all now just a tad shitty scratchy.)
The Home fans had flocked here from miles around,
To Englands green and present Premier football ground,
All set to see England play winningly at Wembley,
All so happy together, in a gloriously riotous assembly.
All through the first half the crowd stood, up and singing,
By late on in the second half, down and hand-wringing,
Still hopefully singing- this time the lads would be victorious,
Ringing proud round the ground, loud if ultimately vainglorious.
Once more, as oft before, England failed the test,
Again, fair England, penalised into being second best,
As per tradition, opportunity and spot kicks missed,
But this national tragedy came with an extra kick twist.
The stunned crowd streamed from Wembley, sad, deflated,
Not singing 'Land Of Hope And Glory' as much anticipated,
Herded into their British Rail carriages, to sit in silent ponder;
Emptiness carried up to Goole, Hull, Halfwhistle and yonder.
Or to East or West,
But, everywhere, depressed,
Even in the Beautiful South-
Deeply down in the mouth.
Later, be it in the Albion, the Crown, Anchor or the Rising Sun,
Fans shared rounds with old mates, gathered in commiseration,
Next morning, wondering upon waking, shaking, with sore head
How much viral disappointment could they possibly have spread?
‘Want a beer when you’ve got nowt to cheer about- fancy a Corona?’
Shawly, just two minutes in
And there was no doubt-
England, for the win!
Barring a penalty shoot-out.
Would Football be coming home?
Not according to Gods plan-
Thy praises ring all 'round Rome,
They were all a'praying in the Vatican.
(All my commiserations to all in England. It ain't right, it ain't fair, but that's how the Rosaries roll. Looks like we all know who is Italy's Number One fan.)
When folk reacquaint themselves with Mr. Gray
They look, stunned to see he ain't aged a day,
They ask if Dorian has found the elixir of youth?
But behind Gray's merry eyes lies an ugly truth.
Back in the old days when he was young, in fact
Dorian drew up quite the Mephistophelian pact,
He could live a libertine life where age took no toll
And all it would take was a worthless eternal soul!
This Faustian deal only a short-sighted fool would sign,
For a moment Gray's hand hovered on the bottom line,
It looked quite the bargain- to a damn fool lad of his age-
So he struck the devil's bargain, signed on the last page.
In exchange for his signature Dorian gets the picture,
Faust gets a hell of a deal, ironclad as Holy Scripture,
Faust lingering over every letter should've been a hint
That Dorian should've better reviewed the small print.
Then Dorian lived the high life, and life rolled along,
All wine, women and song, doing everything wrong,
Years passed, as in the looking glass he aged not at all,
But before too long he turned his portrait to face the wall.
A picture is worth a thousand words, so it's said,
Now Dorian looks at his rendering with daily dread,
A portrait ageing in Dorian's place sounds far fetched
But it troubles him to see a fine face so deeply etched.
At days end, when Dorian looks back on his debauchery
Then what ghastly mistakes will the old roué and rake see?
A savagely ravaged face, facing an eternity of damnation;
And who signed off on fucking himself? self-fornication?
‘The devil with all that old technology. I’ve updated!’
A Survivors Guide To Night Life.
If you should wake from sleep to the sound of screams
And through the windowpane full moonlight streams,
And the streets below look like a bloody crime scene-
Prowling Zombies, growling werewolves, bloody keen-
And it's nowhere near Halloween?
These horrors are no mere fiction Stephen King wrote?
Then it's time to stifle that shriek that rises in your throat;
A man's home is his castle but to fight would be suicide,
So lock the door, zip your lip, swallow that warriors pride,
The dystopian future is here; so hide.
So it's true the rabid 'Hemlock Grove' mob ain't bit the dust?
Them Walking Dead half-wits not yet done with wanderlust?
Some choice- Death's kiss by a Zombie's cold blood rep lips
Or a barking mad dog's life whenever the blood lust grips?
Every full moon, another bloody apocalypse.
Who's a'tapping at the door, who's a'rattling my chain?
I hope they go away, and I pray they don't call again,
Leave me high up in my dark attic, hid in the pitchest black
Softly bitching 'bout this neighbourhood gone to the pack
Quietly waiting for the dawn to crack.
Sat in the shadows ain't how the hero should behave?
Better perched in the loft than turning in your grave,
My advice is to wait, still, till, in the cold light of day-
We'll deal to Zombie and beast in a most unhuman way
And the Hell with the RSPCA.
(Another in the interminable Shlock mock horror series. One day I’ll kill ’em off.)
As Autumn's leavings disappear
Winter is almost here.
Time is long overdue to replace our heat pump of old,
It's begun to moan and groan, to grumble and wheeze...
As soon as we stepped over 'House Warmers' threshold
The fair Val appeared at our side, as quick as you please.
Full of Christmas-like cheer,
Words warm as Butterbeer.
Her easy manner, knowledge and patience had us sold,
We were both warmed and affected by her rare expertise,
She radiantly smiled while I reached deep in my billfold,
Seems fixing our heating nightmare would be a breeze...
Winter solstice drawing near,
Feel the frosty atmosphere?
'Nother long silent month gone, and has our hot case gone cold?
All calls to Val get left on 'hold', she's giving us the deep freeze,
Conversely Val's name is a constant hot topic in our household,
Faith and hope in fu-flaming Val is cooling, plunging by degrees.
‘And installation as quick as a flash, as fast as lightning.’
Lessons From Watching 'Scream' Again.
For the fans of the gory horror flick
Sick of the perennial hoary old tropes
'Scream' played out a slick new trick
To raise any Millennial's bloody hopes.
'Scream' kicks off with a sick new twist-
But first I ought to offer a 'Spoiler Alert!'
If you loved Drew in 'Never Been Kissed'
Her getting the kiss-off here is gonna hurt.
See, the pretty blonde nubile teen-
Her part's played by Drew Barrymore,
She's scarcely finished the first scene
When- so suddenly! Drew is no more.
What, the Star gets cut in the first act?
Drew winds up axed before Act Two?
Spoke a few lines, then gets whacked?
So, what advice might've saved Drew?
Don't mention you'll be at home alone
With no one close to share the popcorn,
Drew, definitely do not answer the phone
Drew, if you want to live to see the dawn.
Don't let anyone outside in if they ask,
Or scream when a ghastly face appears,
Who knows who is behind that mask?
Face it Drew, this will all end in tears.
Sad to report, you ain't safe with old friends,
Two once-best buds now ain't right in the head,
Sad, by the time this twisted tale grislily ends
Our cut-in-the-first-act heroine is long dead.
‘Soon, Blondie, just hangin’ on the telephone.’
(Ok, slightly sick humour in the captions but what the hell…)
Love In Vain- Or, Vein.
Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein
Watched her hubby from the shoreline,
Alas, for the wild and stormy poet of note
'Twas not the time to be paddling a leaky boat.
It devastated his distraught young wife
When Percy Shelley sunk and lost his life,
So before Mary cremated her sweetheart
She took hold, held close that cold cold part.
A little large for a silver locket,
A bit too big for a wee dress pocket,
And far too gross to hold in her hand-
Best placed underneath the nightstand?
She kept his heart in her bedside drawer,
Not for her brief grief, no, it remained raw,
She kept it locked inside a heart-shaped box
Amongst her dainty hankies, smalls and socks.
At first this act of sweet spousal devotion
Seemed an endearingly darkly Romantic notion,
Till for even the hanky-dabbing Widow Mary Shelley
Percy became less lingering memory, more simply smelly.
(I commented on a blog, and that comment twisted its way into this... odd offering.)