The Rolling Stones front man goes under the knife for a little bit of maintenance. Time waits for no man, Mick my boy.

Surgery For The Ol’ Devil.

Old Sir Mick just keeps on a’rolling,
Geriatric Mick prefers jiving to strolling,
But now, in his seventies his step’s begun to stutter
His high-living past has set his stony heart all a’flutter.

A dickey heart valve needs refurbishment
For Micks old ticker’s taken some punishment,
There’s no doubt when it comes to wear and tear
Micks plucky organ’s done more than its fair share.

Now the old pump is suffering from overuse,
But in Micks case it sure ain’t down to self abuse,
Cigarettes and bad habits have contributed to his current issues
But his old wives and girlfriends won’t be reaching for the tissues.

Thinking back on them good(?) ol’ school days, of pimply adolescence, tough lessons and first silly soppy juvenile teenage love.

Greasy Kids Stuff.

It was the first day of February and one thing was clear,
I was never ready to face this bright new school year,
A step up towards High school, and higher learning
Left this poor student with his poor stomach churning.

A spotty youth, a third former, the lowest of the low,
Puberty was kicking in, and it was beginning to show,
Pimples and blackheads blighted this once fresh face,
As soon as one eyesore faded, two more took its place.

I did learn three things on my first day at Hagley High,
The first was to say ‘yessir’, and never ever question why,
Second, the Headmaster held more authority than God above,
Third, I fell for a girl, with all the pure passion of puppy love.

This girl was The One, the one I worshiped from afar,
This girl lit up my darkest nights, like a shooting star,
My last thought before I slept, my first come the morn,
I was besotted by a girl who didn’t know I’d been born.

I wondered how and when I could chance to meet her,
I practiced the perfect words with which I would greet her,
I alone could see she her realise our stars were destined to align;
So sad, the dreams of a short-pantsed pimply Frankenstein.

I made my approach, in the lonely corridor there was only her and I,
I tried my long practiced patter, but my throat was bone dry…
To see the one you want to want you with all your being
Waltz past you, eyes all a’sparkle, oblivious, unseeing…

A summer ‘Stralian wedding and honeymoon. The southern sun is warmly shining, the water is cool and inviting, what could go wrong?

Love Bites.

We two lovebirds visited the Lonely Planet site,
Found a beachouse out in the Great Australian Bight,
For this couple wished to spend our wedding night
Tucked away from the prying media spotlight.
And nosy kith and kin.

We woke to a sea a’ twinkling in the morning light;
It felt as if Mother Nature had handed us an invite,
And with ‘nary a cloud or single soul in sight
To not swim au naturale  seemed impolite.
If not a naked sin.

Especially when two are hot enough to ignite,
When temptations and temperatures top 100 Fahrenheit,
When hot naked passions- and swim suits- take flight
The sea offers a change, if not a cool respite.
And soothes chafed inflamed skin.

Skinny dipping is sheer unbridled delight,
The seas ebb and flow is sure to primordially excite,
But thrashing bare bodies are bound to whet the appetite
Of Thrashers, Makos, Tigers, that bloody Great White…
So, better out than in.

Halloween night, then Guy Fawkes night, so close together. From Cherry Blow-pops to Cherry Bombs in a matter of days.

Rocket Fizz.

Halloweens been done-
That hit the sweet spot,
We had Starbursts by the tonne,
But we ate the lot.

Now, for a real barrel of fun
Give Guy Fawkes night a shot,
His idea was an incendiary one
But that poor Guy lost the plot.

Attraction, emotions, romance, true love, love proven… a period of waiting… marriage, then happy ever after. Ain’t love grand?

Post Nuptial.

I’m special, not the sort of person
Who’d marry any old sort of person
Pregnant or not to him.

We could never become that sort of people,
The kind who find they resort to other people;
Tied by the trusty knot, me and him.

But I became another person
When he came in another person.
This widow’s well shot of him.

I read a passage or two the other day on how the zealots and moral guardians down here on Gods good earth can come to terms with the temptations of Trump. It seems almost all can be forgiven. Now, let us pray…

A Flipping Miracle.

Good God, I find it hard to believe those who do believe
That Donald Trump is part of Gods mysterious Master plan,
Those of blind faith who found a black president impossible to conceive
Yet can find little fault in this one, Gods Right White quite imperfect man.

Any conservative will admit he’s a philanderer,
But Sweet Jesus, Donald’s making a great nation,
And doth the Good Book not say, ‘to be human is to err?’
Let’s give Don the benefit of doubt (and a liberal translation.)

How the bloody righteous paw through chapter and verse,
Praying pardon for their (play)boys less than model behaviour,
Finding any blessed reason to praise a man Beelzebub would curse;
How Divine, stumbling on such a forgiving anti-Gay-Muslim-Refugee Saviour.

The day comes along for a maudlin thought or two. Such is life.

Long Slow Burn.

Spring brings thoughts of summer, tinged with regret,
For today is- was- the birthday of my brother Chet,
So I called in to work claiming, truthfully, an upset.

I drive the old roads we once biked way back when,
Them skies looked newer and bluer way back then
To two overgrown boys, so so far from being men.

I parked by the pool, old now, new then… to reminisce,
Of that hot endless summer, of the exquisite bliss
Of meeting Chets girlfriend’s sister, of a first kiss.

So we spent those days, young and tanned and strong
Not a care in the world the whole damn summer long;
Show me a healthy tan, and I’ll show you you’re wrong.