England, shot in the foot AGAIN- So who in the England set-up ran over a black cat? Or a nun?

RIP 1066-1966.

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.)

©Obbverse.

Wake up before your workaday mundane Monday commute and enjoy the company of our cheery six A.M. breakfast news team! Or not.

Groundhog Day Again.

'Good morning, Merrilee, what's happening in the news today,
What's trending, pray tell, what's going down in the greater USA?'
'Morning Mitch, well, it's much like yesterday's news, sorry to say,
Trials, tribulations, protests- oh, 'nother mass shooting by the way.'

'Oh Merrilee, this is a tragedy, so soon after yesterday's report?
It gives me pause to think how quick our lives can be cut short,
So let me take a moment to send out heartfelt prayers of support;
OK, moving along Merrilee- hey, what's new in weather and sport?'


(Yet another dark rather than light flippant offering. Sorry, but now it's no fun to wake up of a morning and start ticking off the latest mass shooting numbers- Indianapolis Fedex, April 15, Detroit, April 16, Columbus and La Place, April 17, Kenosha and Shreveport , April 18- Since when did mass shootings become an everyday occurrence? The numbers are all becoming quite mind numbing, aren't they?) 

©Obbverse

Don’t try to pick up old bad habits again, it’s all too easy to get burned- and your butt kicked.

Vapour Trail.

She stood aloof, with a Kool, looking hot,
Hand lightly holding that dangling invitation,
My pledge to stop my vice instantaneously forgot
So up I stepped, Ronson raised in anticipation...

I lit up her smoke, hand slightly shaking
Certain I'd struck up a true love match,
She turned away, left me and my heart breaking;
So it's back to solo vaping and the nicotine patch.

'Don't hold your breath, Champ.'

©Obbverse

‘Tis the season of jolly carols and yo-ho-ho’s. Oh, but there’s more. The highs and lows of Christmas

Thirteen Days Till Christmas.

(Two people close to my heart
Departed twenty-four hours apart,
So now come every thirteenth of December
I take a shot or two to help me not remember.)

With but a dozen lousy sleeps before Christmas Day
I can count on reminders of two who have passed away,
Today Carey's heart-wringing singing leaves me unenamoured
So I'll  flip Mariah's seasonal CD off and carry on getting hammered.

There's not a solitary sodden year I've let pass
Without solemnly raising my twice charged glass,
Sure, tomorrow todays toasts will leave me sorely troubled;
Now my efforts to forget todays regrets demand to be redoubled. 

(To Chet and Barb. Cheers.)

©Obbverse

Going write off. The latest merry message in the old Email has suggested a writing sabbatical is in order. Funnily enough, I agree.

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 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.)

©Obbverse

Peter Green, first Fleetwood Mac guitarist, dies in his sleep. Music-wise, a sad sad loss; But it was a tragic loss fifty years ago when first he lost himself. (Sometimes you don’t do acid. Acid does you.)

Not Of This World.

I’ll say a sadly late farewell to Peter Green,
He’s gone from the dark place he’s long been,
This man who put his soul into Fleetwood Mac
Then went off on his detour, never to come back.

Peter took a little trip on the Cosmic Cab,
A one-way trip that deals out a heavy tab.

He yearned to soar high to that mystical place
Where the bound to Earth might see Gods face,
So, with enquiring open mind Lysergicly expanded
Pete saw Heaven knows what before he crash-landed.

So if its blissful enlightenment you’re tempted to find
Please- think of how poor lost Peter changed his mind.

 

©Obbverse

Every writers nightmare; The answer, though, might be alighting right outside your window.

Grounded.

I’m really truly suffering through writers block,
I’ve reams of pure white virgin A4 stock,
Stacks of empty worded pages mock,
My inspiration soars, like a rock.

No matter how hard I try,
How I look up to the sky,
Lord on high knows why-
But my words won’t fly.

Thoughts scramble through my mind, tumble to the floor,
Once my brain and right hand had this great rapport,
This day all my high-falutin words serve but to bore-
And that bird wittering outside is the last straw!

Guess I’ll lay down my quill and cease this fu- futile quest,
Broodily watch the machinations of a robin red breast,
Toss this page outside, inspirations gone West-
Hey, bird brain, take this shit to line your nest.

(inspired by a poem ‘Pretty Little Sparrow/Lauren M. Hancock
And the song ‘Look Over Your Shoulder’ by Alan Price.)

©Obbverse

The Prez sez ‘stay at home’ one day, the next he says stand outside and protest against staying at home- if you live in Democratic Minnesota, Michigan or Virginia. What is his rationale? Schizophrenia? Appeasing his gung-ho Right? Oh yeah, Right.

Free Dumb.

See them fired-up freedom fighters gathered together,
All Camo-jacketed, NRA patched, cuckoo birds of a feather,
Clutching their precious metal to heart with sweating palms,
All too ready to embrace any cockamamie rallying call to arms.

They all say they’re itchin’ to get right back on the job
But first order of business is mingling with the mob,
Patriotically waving an AR15 or Old Glory overhead,
Idiotically spreading covid 19 amongst the brain dead.

No quietly staying home, these clowns won’t be cowed-
Better off out enjoying the contagious baying of the crowd-
Where’s the fun in being parked up alone fighting off this cough
When you can run wild in the streets raisin’ hell with the safety off?

Every day, in its well-worn way the world turns and the seasons oh so slowly change. But this foul Fall day is going to be a blur.

Losing It.

Today I woke to a morning bright and crisp and clear
Then I felt my sunny autumnal smile freeze then disappear,
Daylight Savings Day in Fall’s a dark day I’ve come to hate,
A long brunch, dinner at four, tucked up in bed at eight!

In summertime every second saved- warmly enjoyed,
Beers, barbecues, every hour spent leisurely employed,
But when them leaves fall and long days grow short
I regret not saving for a rainy day, a last sunny resort.

All Sunday is a haze, spent wondering if I’ve woken,
Wondering if I’ve cat-napped, if that Fitbit’s broken?
What a waste of time, one lousy hour of morning light
Exchanged for a far longer hour of dark cold winters night.

©Obbverse

In these Coronavirus times of trouble, proof of good fellowship is just around the corner. If not, let’s shop around. (Somewhat sad and somewhat true.)

Stripped Clean.

I thought it was time to do a quick shop,
Down to my local grocer I’d quickly pop,
But when I stepped in, lo and behold
There was scarcely much left to be sold.

No, there was not a lot left of anything,
The shop held naught but a hollow ring,
Dick’s hadn’t been this empty in many a day,
Bare shelves made his an embarrassing display.

No soap spray, no eggs, no milk, no flour, no pasta,
This little shopping trip was looking a major disaster,
No tinned tuna, no baked beans, scarcely a grain of rice
And I wouldn’t buy Dick’s old chicken sushi at any price.

The manager sidled up, whispered in my ear
That because I was a regular customer here
He could offer me an under-the-counter deal,
But his little bargain soon sounded like a steal.

If I wanted a dab of hand sanitiser I was in luck,
For me, a mere twenty bucks, fresh off the truck,
And a one-off offer of a singularly prized toilet roll-
For another twenty, and the promise of a mortal soul.

After two minutes of character assessment, (time well spent,)
I looked him in the shifty eye and out his dark door I went,
It’s wonderful to be reminded that when in times of need
One common thing humanity never runs short of is greed.

 

©Obbverse