That old saying ‘cheats never prosper’ raises its ugly head again.

Mr Dee's Misdeeds.

Michael has always been a bit of a Jack the Lad,
Over all the years I have never met Mike's like,
Mike has never been content with what he had
Until finally his wife had had enough of Mike.

Time and again Mike had broken her trust,
The times he'd told her of his deep remorse,
That he would love her exclusively if she could just
Wait for a month for the penicillin to run its course.

Once more he'd returned home 'truly contrite,'
She told him, as usual, this was his last chance,
And, to his credit, he remained true- for a fortnight
Before giving up his hard work and going freelance.

He slunk home- to be handed divorce proceedings:
As his neighbours we felt sorry for our flawed friend,
Wife Patsy stonily remained immune to his pleadings,
To Mike, our welcome and a sofa we sillily did extend.

Hey, he needed a good couple with a cheap place to stay,
He gave me a manly embrace, pecked my wife's cheek,
Tearily told us ours was a debt he could never repay
Then asked if we could let his rent slide till next week?

So, next week came, and went, and then so did the next,
We couldn't say 'the rent's late' if it's never been paid,
But Mike was not our boarder, not in the usual context-
Every night he's down the pub, in the ear of the barmaid.

Then, in a moment of drunkenness weakness his wife called,
Told us, in a sweetly Shiraz slurred voice, Mike was missed,
I hawed 'he's unavailable' but his Patsy wouldn't be forestalled,
When I admitted he was down at the pub, was she PISSED!

'Twas well after closing time when Mike returned
His tie awry and a roguish smile lingering on his lips,
Patsy's anger at his peccadillos left him unconcerned
Now that the hot barmaid at the Inn was taking his tips.

              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

But when the barmaid came a'knocking on our door
With an Antarctic look in her eye, face hotly aglow
Mike was off out the window, oh, he knew he score,
Leaving us to face the wrath only the knocked-up know.

Now the sly dog hoped to fix all the vows he'd broken,
So easily he abandoned the roof we'd put over his head,
Now he honed up on sorry apologies, oh so glibly spoken,
Once weaselly words easily drew a silly wife back to his bed. 

But all his heartfelt calls to his sweetheart were to no avail,
Never before had Patsy not swallowed Mike's honeyed tones,
This came as a blow to the balls ego of the cocky Alpha male-
And no quick one at the Inn, with the barmaid cursing his bones.

Eventually Mike's family and few friends sought an intervention,
A tally-up of all his comings and goings left even Mike surprised,
That Patsy had forgiven so much was beyond comprehension
Especially when she had first seen all his shortcomings realised.

Oh, but this time there was no second chance for Gods gift,
This last time Patsy's hard lesson had finally been taught,
This time there could be no healing of the irreparable rift,
So divorce proceedings and extra child support were sought.

Now when poor Mike is up its to work six eighteen-hour days,
Nights find him laid up in bed, desiring nothing but blessed rest,
Now Mike simply can't make ends meet, and forget 'bout a raise,
The only bulge in his pants is his wallet, and that's hard pressed.

               'Lover boy- this is your wake-up call.'


(On re-reading this a fair few of my young friends, back in the day, seemed to be fated (and fertile enough) to have started a family younger than they would have reasonably expected. I guess some were lucky, some were not, and one or two of us good Boy Scouts learned to come prepared?)

©Obbverse.

Over in jolly old England the fickle summer sun flits fleetingly down upon a pretty pastoral village green scene. In the cricket pavilion anticipation is in the air…

The Ducks Back.

In most every quaint English village on a summers Saturday
Two teams of lads clad in Cricket Whites stoically stand and wait
To see whether today could be the day the sun comes out to play,
Knowing fine talk of a change in the weather forecast is … precipitate.

The older sit back with a cuppa and talk of the old glory days
When Great Britain ruled o’er a vast empire, and the waves,
When pasty white chaps showed in peculiarly English ways
The way the proper Englishman abroad eccentrically behaves.

Wherever an intrepid Englishman landed and stuck his flag,
Into whatever hot dry dusty plain the Captain chose to settle on
Someone would reach into the hold, haul out the wrinkly kit bag,
Someone would mark up a cricket pitch, someone put the kettle on.

In India the wallahs looked up as the sun reached its apex,
Puzzled as twenty-odd Englishmen went out in the noonday sun,
That sun blazed down on those fair tender reddening necks,
Why, one steaming idiot batted the ball- up and down they’d run!?!

Off in the West Indies or in the Land of the Long White Cloud
Limey sailors would soon whip out their trusty balls and bat,
Soon the foibles of this batty game were taken up by the crowd,
The locals saw the Brits at their best and thought ‘we can better that.’

The Poms marked out their pitch on South Africa’s dusty loam
The games began while the colonised looked on, nonplussed,
By the time the Brits picked up their bat and balls and went home
The keen apter pupils had left the old troopers trailing in the dust.

When the Olde English had had their fill of robbers, thieves and cheats
They packed ’em off on prison ships to Aussie penal colonies forthwith,
And even now in the genteel Ashes clashes history sometimes repeats;
See the sleight of hand of *Vice-Cap’n Warner and Skipper ‘Slick’ Smith?

Strange that the English invented the archetypal summer sport,
Odder is the fact this this crazy game is now played by sweaty millions
While back home in Britain where they have summer (of a sodding sort)
The avid fans spend most Summer days packed in fuggy pavilions.

It’s a rare fine Saturday when its not a choice of cancel play or drown;
Everywhere saturated fans look out over some English village green
Looking glumly as the black clouds roll in and the heavens tumble down;
The only way most English fans will see blue skies is on a Sky TV screen.

*For non-cricket following readers- Two poor sport/dirty rotten cheatin’ Aussie bastards of the lowest order, a couple of fair dinkum prize pricks.

 

‘Oh, top catch, Snodgrass-Wittering! Next at bat for Little Worksop is Heyhoe-Flynt.’

©Obbverse.

Novak Djokovic, Number One best self server in tennis, loses off court.

Double Fault.

Novak Djokovic is back on a plane,
Seems he appealed to the Courts in vain,
Guess Novak thought they'd bend the rules,
Guess Novak thought he'd play 'em all for fools?

Number One's badly misjudged his charms,
Yet his phalanx of Serb family remain up in arms
Demanding their unvaxxed hero be given a free pass;
Novak, the simple answer is, get the jab, you stubborn ass.

Novak, If you wish to come and play
Grand slam tennis in this sick ol' world today
Please make sure the visa declaration you signed
Is factually true, or you'll find your invitation declined.

Yet there is no happy ending to this story,
The Aussies are covered in- well, it ain't glory,
As Novak leaves he's 'entitled' to one passing shot-
Does the Aussie 'Government' have half a clue or not?

©Obbverse.

How to change a winning prescription.

Not So Hot Shots.

There's many a well remunerated sports star
Who happily pushed their performance too far,
Like the 'likes' of Lance Armstrong and Flo Jo
Who saw nothin' wrong with more get up and go.

Two lab rats, quite happy to cheat be turbo induced,
A shot of dope gave 'em that extra performance boost,
When fame, glory and rich rewards are hard to resist
Why not buy into and prescribe the illegal drugs list?

There's nothin' a decent drug cheat cannot achieve
If you can just make the effort- to roll up your sleeve,
Given a bit of bribery you should escape detection,
Those days few athletes were averse to an injection.

But the times are a'changing, even for bad sports, 
Now elite athletes don't want to drop their shorts,
A few claim it's their Right to run pure and drug free
Yet have bought into the anti-Covid drug conspiracy.

Like the once Cavalier, now Brooklyn Nets Kyrie Irving
And Novak Djokovic who insists 'not what you're serving,'
No FDA vetted jab for these two- not even one simple prick,
Give these jackasses a drug choice- Ivermectin's their pick.

They only ask to freely play before their paying fans
Yet both blindly refuse to entertain vaccination plans,
So please, Novaxx and Kyrie, just take your free shot-
Let's see you on court, not caught up in some dumb plot.

• 

• 

©Obbverse.

Are things booking up for the Transylvanian Tourist Board at last?

Dark Days, Black Nights.

It's no fun trying to shake off my family's dark legacy,
My bad name and face ain't one good folk wanna see,
It's a grand old artistocratic name, yet one most detest,
Hereabouts my Vlad name's more cursed than blessed.

Beneath the shadow of Castle Dracula change comes slow,
The villagers and I warily co-exist in an uneasy ebb and flow,
The wild accounts they tell of Count Dracula never get old-
Yet there's a drop o' truth to the hoary horror story Stoker told.

My bad reputation remains preserved deserved I do admit,
The peasants don't welcome my presence one little bit,
Slowly, over time, any mutual good will has been lost,
But once my blood's up I'm a bad Count to be crossed.

I've quite the cad's reputation here in our quiet backwater,
I've been the ruination of many a fine farmers daughter,
Stoker said I've a cool dark and damned handsome look,
But you'll find no photographic evidence in Bram's book.

For a soul who's seen so much in his lifetime
I believe I look like a man still well in his prime,
Of course, I could be accused of gross vanity-
I can truly say that doesn't reflect the real me.

Tales of my gross misdeeds have hung around for ages,
Fathers and nuns still twist and turn over my back pages,
'Tis true, I'm out and about, prowling these moonlit streets
As good God fearin' folk hide, shiverin' 'neath their sheets.

Legend says I'm most likely to be seen at night,
True again- dawn demands I be tucked up tight,
I'll happily snore the day away till late afternoon,
Sleep the damned day away, rise with the moon.

There's not many locals left who call me friend,
Most who did tended to come to a sticky end,
The Hotelier won't let me step over his threshold-
To be denied a warm pint makes my blood run cold.

He knows full well some nights I'd murder for a sip,
His problem is the bar empties out should I request a nip,
The toast my name elicits here is 'Cheers, to Drac's death!'
And I can't face that toxic wave of Bitter and garlic breath.

My  problem is, here on my old vamping ground
Fresh blood is a commodity too rarely found,
So when I heard rumours of tourists in town
You could Count on me to chase 'em down.

Far too few city folk come approach the Castle door
Though the breathtaking view sure is one to die for-
A new-wed couple booking in here's something rare,
And an appreciative nose twitched up in my dank lair.

The happy couple arrived, wreathed in smiles,
Brought in by horse and cart for the last five miles;
Around these parts that means riding in First Class,
Third Class is by two feet, Second is on one's ass.

All about the cheery locals called out 'Willkommen,'
The jolly Innkeeper took their cash and booked 'em Inn,
Said, 'my good son Slobodan will be your guiding light,
He's as honest as the day is long, just... not that bright.'

All day long, accompanied by their watchful guide
The honeymooners delighted in the countryside,
But once the sun touched the tip o' the mountain top
Slobodan's guided tour screeched to an abrupt stop.

The guide looked at his unwound watch in dismay,
Slobodan feared he might wind up rueing this day,
He turned for home, shadows darkening his face,
Setting off through the trees at a reckless pace.

As long shadows turned the forest ominously black
The three staggered out of the claustrophobic track,
Slobodan turned and squinted up at the setting sun,
Gulped, and set off for the village at a shambling run.

The unhappy couple watched his broad rear disappear;
For a provincial yokel Slobodan could get his ass in gear,
They caught the sweaty Slob panting on the village gate
Whereon Slob explained why we don't wander out late.

He told a tale of a bloodthirsty Carpathian Count,
A ghoul who haunts the Castle up on yon Mount,
A beast no one here wants to cross paths with,
What a modern couple dismiss as a foolish myth.

They laughed at Slobodan and his warning
And his advice to stay indoors till morning,
Dismissing every word the misguided fool said,
Still, being on honeymoon, why not early to bed?

So, upstairs they made haste;
Now, in the bounds of good taste
Since this is not a saucy R18 rated tale
Now it's time to discretely draw the veil... 

So later, but after not quite as long as she had hoped
The wide eyed bride lifted the duvet and blindly groped,
A quick tug of a curtain cord and in the moonlight spilled,
She stepped o'er to the window, feeling oddly unfulfilled. 

Outside the latched window, clad in a coal black cloak
The very image of he of whom their guide had spoke-
Slowly, devilishly, he looked up and their eyes locked,
His lip twisted up, and an enquiring eyebrow cocked...

Helpless as his darkly mesmerising eyes bore into hers,
Marriage vows evaporate as something within her stirs,
Window opened wide, she dreamily invites him inside,
And by dawn the groom is set to leave his bloody bride.

As if emerging from a nightmare she swayed, pale, woozy, 
A livid bruise on her neck the mark of Drac's two bit floozy!
The groom strode up to my Castle, he knocked down my door,
Such a crazy cross-eyed look his wild and red eyes wore!

He pushed loyal Ygor aside, he could not be contained!
Now, after a long night of necking I felt tired and drained,
In the light of day my denials wouldn't do me much good,
So I lay silent in my chamber, fearing his knock on wood.

How dare some vengeful mortal man ruin my rest?
How dare some retributive husband bare my breast?
He looked Hellbent on blaming me for his divorce,
And he had a point to hammer home, of course.

                  - + - + - + - + - + - + - + - + -  

The bride and groom departed in the horse and cart,
Who knew they'd reconcile over my broken heart? 
As o'er the dark Castle the ashen clouds blow away 
It grieves my soul knowing I've years of Hell to pay.

Those two still talk up their trip to our quaint paradise,
(Though he ain't apt to mention his bloody sacrifice,)
Thanks to word of mouth we're now a destination of note 
(Though at times her endorsement catches in her throat.)

Now in the busy tavern the sad old narrative's shifted,
Tourists keep local tale tellers elbows and spirits lifted,
From this village's life I have gone, and none too soon;
But one dead Count has turned their bane into a boon.

©Obbverse

After the earthquake moved and rocked our world, the main street through our red light district now has more red lights than a poor cab driver can deal with.

Red Light Spells Danger.

Before the coming of the great shuddering quake
Manchester Street was the infamous site
For the slow cruising driver to ease on the brake
If waved down by a lady of the night.

For a young semi-professional gal on the make
That sedan creeping along just might
Mean the guys wife said she had a pounding headache
And she's home, snoring in bed, tucked up tight.

And if that louse of a husband is up and awake
A night drive may offer a handy respite?
If a gal's willing and able, his lust she will slake
So long as the price is right.

              - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Now cruising through Manchester Street's a big mistake,
Down the revamped street, not a walker in sight,
Still cars crawl slowly along as if in a funeral's wake,
On every street corner flashes a red- traffic- light.

Good God, how long should a main drag drive take?
Our new city planners ain't proved overbright,
As I sit, stalled, I slowly give my frustrated head a shake-
Now Manky Street's no Uber transport of delight.



(The trusty driver in this story is a fictional character, obviously. Really!)

 

©Obbverse

The lying cheating Ponzi scheming Bernie Madoff passes on, still stuck in the slammer. But what of his long term futures?

Rich Man, Ponzi Man, Bernie Madoff, Thief.

Bernie Madoff, that ball of slime
Has done spending time in jail,
He's hardly started serving his time
For fraud on a madly massive scale.

But Bernie's sentence is at expiration.

He ripped people off for his own ends,
He left a trail of Madoff bad debts behind,
He bilked clients and milked dear friends,
Every one a poor rube to be robbed blind.

So much for his trustworthy reputation.

He was sentenced to three lifetimes in clink,
Judged deserving of serving 150 years,
Time enough to take stock, stop and think...
What fresh Hell awaits as Eternity nears? 

It's time for a soul-searching conversation.

Alas, poor Bernie, did he did try to cut a deal?
Offer Satan up his soul, or a majority share?
But in certain cases that offer holds no appeal,
A peep into some hearts shows... nothing there.

Any ex-client knows that's no Revelation. 

As Bernie breathes his last in his lonely cell
Does he pray St. Pete swallows his sob story?
The ol' silver tongued devil tells a tale so well;
Or will Bernie be the richest soul in Purgatory?

So ends Bernie's short incarceration.

Bernie lived the rich Ponzi scheme dream
Now life in a pokey cell is a poor way to live,
The debt he owes he knows he'll never redeem,
What a pity bankrupt Bernie had only life to give.

It's back to the bottom for Bernie if you're into reincarnation.

©Obbverse

A Writers Tale- or, a downward spiral leading to a crash pad.

The Buck Stops Here.

In our family tree
Few entertain writing poetry,
But my Great Aunt
Handed me a grant.

To College I went,
Her talents I misspent,
One thing was clear-
I'm a poor Shakespeare.

So, like 'Paradise  Lost'
Out I was tossed-
No safe havenly dorm
Thanks to D-grade form.

Such is the curse
Of purveyors of verse,
Down to last buck
Till a stroke struck.

++++++++++++++++

With Great Aunt dead
Good will was read,
My unexpected little dividend
Cheered me no end.

Time wasted at home
I'd lavish on poem,
I strutted up town,
Laid my deposit down.

No stairs to climb,
I'd take my time,
My musings, tediously glacial
Echoing round rooms palatial.

I liked to compose
My rich redolent prose,
Pure black 'pon white-
Like, Old School, write?

Fine paper, finer pen...
Increasingly, now and then,
As poor circumstances demand,
Whatever comes to hand.

My talent, beyond doubt?
Amazingly quickly run out,
Who'd ever have thought
I'd be caught short?

Tragically under financial collapse
I'm reduced to scraps,
My outlook's growing darker-
Newsprint and Magic Marker.

My so rosy outlook
Decimated my cheque book,
Past goodwill rarely counts-
Good cheques don't bounce.

From my bottom floor
Was shown the door,
What problems it poses
When one's door closes?

For half the rent
Upstairs I went, bent-
My heavy rent cheapened
As the stairs steepened.

From canopied four-poster bed
To attic inches overhead,
Like Lizzie Barrett Browning
Fiscally and literature-lly drowning.

Rent a month overdue-
Girlfriends says she's two-
All the money's gone-
A moonlight flit's on.

I'm up at midnight
'Neath moon and skylight,
Sadly I'm not above
Running out on love.

Press the dormer window,
Peer waaaaay down below,
Put aside my vertigo-
Hey, way to go!

I'd knot some sheets
And hit the  streets,
But I've some pride-
And a humungous backside.

The rent cheque submitten 
I've  left woefully underwritten,
Whoever's rattling my door
I'm writing no more!

Giving Writers credit- fiction!
I'm facing cold eviction,
Pen mightier than sword?
Tell my pernicious Landlord.

Image = Banksy.

©Obbverse

There’s no place like home for the wandering prodigal son.

Slack Off Gets The Brush Off.

I told Mother Dear I'd drop in on Christmas Day,
What I neglected to say is 'Ma, I'm home to stay,'
Would she welcome a son broke, busted, divorced and thirty
Whose spouse has locked him out 'cause he'd done the dirty?

She listened silently to my sad well-worn tribulatory tale,
It's my Christmas tradition, regular as the Sears Roebuck sale,
And I expect she understands I've arrived here empty-handed-
She'd get her present when my unemployment cheque landed.

Mother knows her misbegotten son is a low-down louse
So she laid down the heavy ground rules of the house,
'You better keep more than just your nose clean, Buster,'
I guess her once Golden boy has lost his old lustre.

When the whole family came over I enjoyed Ma's fine meal,
Those many brandy and port toasts I savoured, a great deal,
I farewelled the family with air kisses and best wishes 
Then went for a power nap while Ma did the dishes.

I lay abed, my heavy head dizzied by all the drink
But ears not dulled enough to not hear the distant clink
As Mother stacked up the multitude of dishes to dry,
Then hear 'Oh my son, my son,' and she began to cry.

Staying sat at home with Ma proved tryingly  hard,
She said I'd best sweep up the shed, out in the back yard 
Since she won't open the door should I invite in the guys
Nor if I should try staggering in sometime after sunrise .

Ma's nagging kept dragging on all through New Year's day,
'My son, my son, get up and haul that dry old tree away,'
She'd taken down the old fading blinking lights
That had lit up a litany of past Christmas nights.

She'd unwound the twisted tinselled trappings of old,
The fraying strands of tarnished silver and dusty gold,
Boxed up the tree top angel, so well past her prime-
She's seen in far too many parties o'er Christmas time.

'Place those precious decorations in the Santa sack,
Put it up in your wardrobe, in place of your backpack,'
I'd say she made her New Year resolution perfectly clear,
'My son, my son, come Valentines Day, you're outta here.'

I drugged out the tree, both of us destined for the chop;
Did the carpet of needles make her sorrowful eyes drop?
Sighing, she began to run around the littered living room
Muttering over her venerable over-the-hill whining vacuum.

My burning ears faintly discerned 'Oh my son, oh my son,
Next Christmas please just present me with a nice new Dyson,
Or a Hoover, Electrolux, Roomba or Miele, I really don't care-
My son, who don't pick up a thing, just sucks and blows hot air.'

©Obbverse

(Based NOT on myself but very loosely on the Stephen King ‘character’ Larry Underwood in ‘The Stand,’ which I’m gamely re-reading after the Covid year?!?)

Don and Rudy spend 3 million bucks looking for votes and come up with zero return. Bad business, Don, a bad deal.

A Tilt At The Scales.

When Don- sadly!- came up seven million votes short-
The Base line is he's reliant on truly deplorable support-
It was time to go for recounts in every State he'd lost,
Saying to Rudy 'To hell with Democracy, and the cost.'

 Don found he was not just Greatly disappointed
To emerge from the big game Hugely outpointed,
It was a pain in the butt seeing he's drooping behind,
Getting a spanking really put his panties in a bind.

In Milwaukee County a recount brought forth the retort
That Donald's three million spend-up was all for naught,
Yet Don's Supremely confident post votes will be tossed,
Rudy agrees, but behind his back it's all fingers crossed.

Even an Amy-able Republican judge, someone Don anointed
Finds following Rudy's pretzel logic requires being triple-jointed,
She might praise Don to high Heaven but Justice must be blind 
And any  fool can see he's lost the big election, and his tiny mind.

“C’mon Amy, be a devil.”

©Obbverse