Category Archives: Desire

Barnaby Joyce is a true National treasure, a rare and engaging man of the land. He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. But baby, this boy ain’t ever going to be voted ‘Father of the Year.’

Talking Into His Hat.

Privately Barnaby and Vikki do make a pretty pair;
Publicly Barnaby brazenly faces the public glare,
His amorous amoral view he is happy to share-
As a politician he wonders why his public should care
About his peccadilloes when they’re his private affair?


Barnaby Joyce, Australia’s Deputy Prime Minister. Moral guardian, anti Gay marriage, a man of staunch moral principles and the Catholic faith. Alas, he’s only sub-human, after all.

Peoples Choice.

Barnaby Joyce is one hell of a guy,
Well, a hell of a politician, few can deny,
He has stepped out on his wife and four kids,
Blame ‘True Love’ not lust, for a career on the skids.

Will his conservative voters forgive his moral flaws?
Shouldn’t a Catholic living in carnal sin not give him pause?
Siring a secretary’s sprog out of wedlock’, he’s pushing it, rather.
Sadly, Barnaby can’t help it if his new kid has a bastard for a father.

The last (lust?) word on whipping in to inner London in December for a quick Christ-messy weekend. Accommodating desires and accommodation can be uncomfortable.

Little Room For Love In London.

I’m not saying London’s dark and gloomy
Or that the Hotel Le Cubicle is less than roomy,
Or there’s no room within to swing a pussycat,
I don’t believe we can stretch credulity to that.

Should one find one who whets one’s sexual appetite
Don’t invite her back to share the night,
One will find oneself feeling like a monk
Unless she’s happy top’n’tailing in a bunk.

Bitten by the riding bug again, for some reason. If you can’t dream, eh?

Firing Up In The Classic Manner.

The Promise.

I’m enamoured by most motorcycles I must profess,
There’s a plethora of eastern promises I’ve come to posses,
But I have lived long with one overriding regret,
That’s that I’ve never owned a classic Velocette.

But now, thanks to a late great Uncles largesse
I can turn my wife’s ‘no way’ to a reluctant ‘yes,’
Soon as I heard the word I sat down with smile set
And my fingers fairly danced as I hit the Internet.

Not for me a malleable mildly tuned inoffensive MSS,
No, I yearned for the fabled Thruxton, nothing less,
But I was to be seduced by a tarted up Vixen, and no debt,
She possessed the fine lines and promise of the true coquette.

The Arrival.

In my garage she’s sat, submitting to my caress,
A twist of the throttle, her kick start I gently press,
A backfire, a belch of flame and my bellowing epithet
Sounded as the kick start hit my calf like a curette.

… My thanks to those Hall Green designers I duly express
For their crankily geared starter only slowed my progress,
If my mild criticisms cause those old buffers some upset
When it comes to your clutch, how crazy could you get?

The Reality.

The old dear’s propped up, oil dripping, in its own mess,
Her starting procedure and clutch adjustment- anyone’s guess,
My once bewitchin’ now forlorn Vixen leaves me in a cold sweat
But my long-standing limp IS making her impossible to forget.

© Obbverse.Com

The President is the grateful recipient of the kind of check he not only likes but fully endorses.

Fit As A Fiddle.

Don’s taken his Medical and he has passed
Despite his penchant for eating his food fast,
He thinks he cuts a, if not fine, an imposing figure
Which he’s assiduosly working at making even bigger.

His trusted Doctor says Don is doing GreaT,
He’s given his grateful President a clean slate,
Don fairly flew through a test specifically designed
For a President possessing his particular state of mind.

All the Doc asks is for Don to take more exercise-
Forgo his nightly regime of stretching for french fries-
Normally Don wouldn’t pay heed to a White House minion
But one thing Donald doesn’t need is a damn second opinion.

No Doctors orders for Don when he takes to his bed,
He retains his healthy appetite for ordering in instead,
There’s nothing that makes another sub-par day complete
Than a tasty treat of fried chicken, followed by a greasy tweet.

Christine Keeler, early sixties girl/woman who brought about the end to John Porfumo, Secretary of War in Britain, is laid to rest. Gone to meet her maker. Is there a subtle way of saying ‘dead’ without it sounding like a double entendre?

A Late Update.

In the obits I read
Kristine Keeler is dead.

What a naughty life she led
But she was pretty good in bed.

She could turn any man’s head.
Fare-thee-well fair lady in red.

Hugh Hefner laid to rest… bad choice of words, maybe?

Party Down.

As the last playboy goes to ground
There’s scarcely a dry eye to be found,
So many ladies, so inconsolably bereaved,
So, twice as many trembling breasts heaved.

Down still shocked grim faces tears roll-
Proof that Botox, sadly, does take its toll,
Every single lady arrayed in mourning dress,
Best suited for cocktails, but black, nevertheless.

Service over, and it’s time to move on,
To look forward to a future with Hef gone,
For those close, his loss leaves a huge hole to fill,
So, it’s up to the Mansion to see what’s in the will.

There’s only the smell of Chanel left in the air-
Save for one solitary person also left in despair,
One last loyal friend who truly feels the loss most,
Welling up at the passing of a warm welcoming host.

He sinks to his knees, pounds on the crypt door,
From those eyes a veritable torrent of tears pour,
The Doctors tears tumble as unceasingly as Niagara Falls,
No more exorbitant house, no more emergency Viagra calls.