Captain Tom Moore, 100 years old, his duty is now done.

Last Parade.

It's been a grim grey February day,
Captain Tom Moore has faded away,
Sir Tom inspired us all by soldiering on,
But age has slowed him and now he's gone.

He raised our spirits in our darkest hour,
Now he's been elevated by a higher power,
A centurion who didn't stand by and idly talk,
Even with his walker Sir Tom walked the walk.


Late breaking news- Larry King has broadcast his last.

All Said And Done.

Larry King has done with the chit-chat,
Larry's once lively repartee has fallen flat,
The celebrated interviewer of famous faces
Has packed in his colourful phrases and braces.

After fifty years of jive and live talking
Now his time has come to do the walking,
Please stand, be silent, such moments are rare,
He's said his piece, made his peace, he's off the air.

‘What, no last word?’


Christmas is nearly here, time to start accumulating those memories that last the whole year long.

Hapless Christmas.

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.)


So, Rudy, Don’s good friend; Could your timing be more sickening?

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.

‘So, that’s a mask, is it? Interesting.’



Last weekend of the Fall. Tuck in to that turkey, winter is a’coming.

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.

Every year
Our near
And dear.

Meet, greet,
Turkey meat,
Leave, replete.

Well fed,
Heavy head,
Goodwill spread.

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.)

What’s cooking, or brewing here?


Lies, lies, hair dye and more damned lies. Rudy G roots out another dark dark mistruth.

The Incredible Sulk- Don't Make Him Madder! 

The president is a poor lost soul,
In two months he's bound to take a lesser role,
But that day is a long way away
And while he plagues this House the rat will play.

For if he accepts he'll have to quit-
And that'll take a bona fide miracle or legal writ-
He'll blame some deep state plot
Like QAnon's latest Ridickylous 'Believe It Or Not.'

Don wants to have losers! votes dismissed,
His lapdogs lawyers trot to court with a long long list,
Trials into next year are the long term goal,
Sadly, Judges dismiss 'em all with a quick eye roll. 

Don's crusty lawyer ain't doin' so GreaT,
Bald faced lying while hair dye runs down his pate,
He only wants Don's the truth to be discerned,
So, as is his nature, Rude won't leave no rock unturned.

SciFi Fantasies are fu  fogging up Don's days,
His is a single minded focus that borders on malaise,
With quarter of a million voters certified dead
Who hopes Don takes a kick breath to clear his head?
No sweat, Donny me boy!

What thoughts spring to the Mighty Ones mind as we march towards the third of November?

Going Postal.

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.


Even among those who truly do believe it’s said that life ain’t fair. Now, from the depths of these dark Covid days, out of deepest Michigan, does one hear a faint forlorn ‘hallelujah?’ A warning: Very dark humour.

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.)


In these touchy times the high-flying aviation-fuelled travel industry is whining down. Seems most people like staying safe and secure at home. Most.

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.






Colourful character Brazilian President Bolsonaro contracts a Covid cough; Sounds like a case of Karma to me.


So, the Brazilian President has a teeny touch of the flu.
Boo hoo.
Both green and red-faced, but consumptively battling through.

‘Simply donning a mask could’ve protected me- and you?’
WHO knew?
Now he thinks wrapping a mask over his mouth is the right thing to do?
Waaaaay overdue.

He could have picked the itchy nose he had as his first clue;
It grew.
He sees the look in the grave eyes of his masked medical crew.
Code Blue.