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!

From tweeting with the stars in prime time to begging for re-runs in the Fall schedule.

A Real Tear Jerking Soap Opera.

Ever since blow-dry Don woke post election day
The Golden Boy's looked washed out and gray,
And though he will not go quietly into the night
To see this ass silver fox turn tail is a welcome sight.

What happened to our old gold Don Juan Don?
A cold reality shows his brash charm has gone,
And after four seasons his shit show is simply trying
And his is a stinker of a final act, ain't no denying?

Don's lost his "Suburban Housewives' Choice" popular vote,
This poor actors star turn is done, and that's all she wrote,
He's lost his gloss, he's now less desirable than Charlie Sheen,
Our Greatest li'l boy lost burnt-out washed-up broken down big time small screen has-been.


Slowly the lights go on in the dim and gloomy White House.

Something's Going Off.

When the early election votes rolled in
Vainglorious Donald could not hold off,
It was a result he alone had no doubt in
So he prematurely started to spout off.

He'd felt a winner, right from the run in,
He'd never seen his term as just a one-off
And when Don's on a roll, don't dare butt in,
Like the polls Don has no automatic shut off. 

Oh, but what a dark day Don did waken in,
In the wee wee hours Sleepy Joe had taken off,
Since those blue post-its have begun to weigh in
Don demanded those accountable take the day off.

Now Don tossed every (ill)legal appeal in-
Forget due process, Don wants this deal off,
His base vote's left a hole big enough to piss in
And suddenly he's getting a democratic kiss off.

In Arizona and Nevada, states he gets flipped in
Don is sweating, steaming and feeling ripped off,
He'd been hoping for a red-hot Southwestern love-in,
Now even Sweet  Jesus Georgia's telling him to shove off.

From right to left, the tide and vote drifts in
Till Don's glowering towering rhetoric lifts off,
Language a drunken sailor would take delight in-
Don's script writers hear a screw up, a total write off.

Donald is in the White House and he's staying in-
It looks like finding that ol' safe room's paying off-
Ain't no better hidey-hole to hold out and obstruct in
Though millions have told him it's time he fucked off.

Where’s Whacky?




Counting down the days till Christmas… and beyond. Somehow it kinda feels like holidays already.

Best Presents EVER.

We'll non-too-soon be seeing the end of Trump/Pence
Although Donald insists on living in the past tense,
His denying of fact, lack of tact and simple common sense
Means Don's childish tanTrumps still cause offence.

Forget fighting Covid, Don's focusing on firing off viral comments
And fragging his frazzled looking Secretary of Defence,
Don has sworn- loudly- he'll not spare one single donors expense
On recounting and courting his Supreme justice nonsense.

So though it's early, let's now let our Thanksgivings commence,
On till Christmas Eve fill the air with carols, joy and frankincense,
Then roll on January, when ends a reign of dumb ignorance,
Then we can all look forward to cool calm and quiet competence.



A frosty Fall day chills the cold empty echoing floors of the White House. Perfect for Happy Feet!

Last Do-si-doh! For Don.

My old Grampap used to dance up a storm,
Pops needed no invitation to get up and perform,
A proper Yankee Doodle dandy life-long Democrat,
He'd be on his twinkling toes at the drop of a top hat.

It was only after Trump waltzed in four years back
Pappy hung his tuxedo, hat and cane on the hat rack,
Grampa knew he'd not be smiling or singin' in the rain
Till that bull in a china shop slipped down the porcelain.

No more doin' the Hand Jive complete with back flip,
No more twistin' by the pool, risking poppin' out a hip,
The best moon walker I'd seen besides Michael Jackson-
Pretty damn fly for a white-haired geriatric Anglo Saxon.

Pops thought his tap shoes and he were past their best,
Now was the time to reminisce and wait for eternal rest,
He set his La-Z-Boy to decline, settled down to Fred Astaire;
Seeing Trump's goose miss-steps made his bed a pit of despair.

Old Granpop wasn't up to doing the Hustle any more,
More of a desperate shuffle towards the bathroom door,
Nothing outside an atom bomb can get him up and about,
He was just like Michael Flatley, all crapped and tapped out.

For four long years poor Pop barely busted a move at all;
Purely pitiful to watch a once Great Man's decline and fall,
It pained Pop seeing Dancing Star Don waltz tango and foxtrot
Effortlessly over democracy, to the stirring soundtrack of Fox rot.

But, come a day of judgement, and before a live audience-
Which star duo would win... Joe/Kam or Dunce/Subservience?
Till on the fifth day of drama, before which Pop avidly sat glued
Finally the vote was in, and left Donny feeling lost- and screwed .

Gramps lifted up his blanket, sat on the edge of his seat
Smiled, seeing Don getting his numb ass kicked by two left feet
As Don rants and starts filling in injunctions (and his underpants)
We're truly privileged to see Granpa's gleefully exuberant Riverdance.

(Check out the odd tired musical reference in there? I'm exhausted, but still dancing on air.)

‘And now, the latest election report… but wait, there’s more!’

The Grand Old Soap Opera.

I thought I'd briefly watch to see who'd be elected,
Though half the time cable shows show total trash,
But, switch left or right, whichever station I selected
I found I was watching a classic American car crash.

I shoulda coulda thought;
Poor show.

This pointless tragicomedy dragged on into the night,
An all-too-familiar nonsensical plot, at a turgid pace,
After my all-night marathon, no tiresome end in sight;
It's a travesty of television to try to call this crawl a race.

Long and overwrought.
Sooo slow.

Time had shown the car crash morphing into a train wreck,
All happening in full painfully and frighteningly slow motion,
So I turned off, tuned out, dropping the remote on that dreck,
I'm no Einstein but I now know time standing still is no notion.

Well and truly taught.
I know.

Now I wake up and see more molassesly moving melodrama,
The dark reality being I wish I was back in the land o' dreams-
I'm stuck deep in a GreaT stalemate as, quietly, Biden and Obama
Watch Donny perform- no, it's not over while the fat boy screams.

Order in the Court?
Oh no.

(Painting; Dick Frizzell ‘Blue Hawaii.’)

Another Halloween tale- or two: Don has a rocky road to victory.

What Haunts The White House?

We're fast careering towards Halloween
And a few days later we hope to have seen
An end to the dispiriting Ghastly Horror of 2016.

With a crucial election nigh
Hopes for a change are frighteningly high,
Pray we can exorcise the so-wrong Right guy.

Don's sure to want someone to look
At every way he can cook the rule book,
He needs to win, by hook or by crook.

The polling prospects for Don might look dire
But his supreme self-belief one must truly admire-
Plus his Supreme Court's now bound to back a liar.

Though he doesn't really possess the ghost of a chance
Still he's trying his damndest to deny any votes in advance,
To tell the truth he's relying on flame-proof underpants.

Should it be the will of the hoi polloi
My whole face will be suffused with joy
To see the golden boy become the orange boy.

Then when the blue boy(!) is given the win
I'll try my damndest to keep my joy deep within,
But I guarantee no mask could hide my Cheshire grin.

In the Halloween camp– or spirit- here’s a jaunty little number.

(To the tune of Rocky Horror’s ‘I Can Make You A Man.’)

Can We Lose The Fake Tan?

Weak-minded, criminally unsound,
Will Don leave with red face
When November 3 rolls around?
Since his chances are slim
Despite determined Fox spin
To cover his multiple flaws
He's privately packing his drawers,
Still refusing to listen to his team
And the unwelcome message
That the four year bad dream
Ends with Donald as a has-been.
Don won't be here long, man.
('Cause he's the wrong man.)

He's nasty and vicious, splenetically mean,
He'll wallow, he'll beg,
Bitch and blame postal workers-
Accept mail-in votes, then renege
Without second thought,
But time's short, not-so-Great man,
In just seven days
You'll be a done deal, fake tan.

He upset the queen, he royally f*cked up,
Hopes to snatch victory, dirty devious jerk,
He thinks democratic elections
Will drive Putin berserk,
Voters so unforgiving
He plum cain't understand,
So in just seven days
Ciao baby,
Make way for a better human.

The outcome of the latest ‘Presidential’ debate; ‘What we had there was a failure to communicate’

A Quiet Word, Gentlemen?

The Chumpian Don and Challenger Joe
Were set to go at one another, toe-to-toe,
Big mouthed Don took more than a little solace
Knowing the judge would be foxy Chris Wallace.

But after Don and Joe's first over-heated debate
Which, from all most could hear, wasn't so great,
Since Don, as usual only wanted to hear his side-
Even Wallace's patience was well and truly tried.

Donald tends to speak for too long and far too loud,
You know, the usual rants to his rabble aroused crowd,
Don ignored all rules of debate, every Wallace instruction,
Just kept grinding on till Chris forced a POTUS interruption.

So we were treated to the deciding round last night,
Both tetchy parties warned to keep the fight polite,
'Two minute rounds before any point was disputed-
Any button pushing trash talk and your mic's muted.'

This time points were validly scored, both blue and red-
The difference being we heard every bloody word said,
If only we'd known, to get Don to butt out or back off
Simply reach for the shut-up switch, just pull the jack off.


President, Professor and statesman Donald J. Trump, an actual medical marvel.

President Trump, Resident Shaman. 

Donald's re-election plans were looking sick
So he drugged out his old tired but trusty trick,
Doctor Don's patented cure is downright cruel;
Donny decides Doctor Fauci must play the fool.

He don't mince words with his double dealings,
Don sure don't believe in masking his feelings,
Good Doctor Fauci has been hung out to dry,
Guess who Donny's designated as his fall guy?

Now Don says all Doctor Fauci's sick talk is phony?
Great Medicine Man Don knows better than Tony?
Tony's just another discarded discredited Trump minion?
Would you stake your your life on witch doctors opinion?

If Don can drag his bad self back to work, perhaps I should too?

In Need Of Medication.

When told a nasty airborne disease
Was a'wafting in from the China Seas
Actually, PresiDon didn't appear to much care,
Factually, he adopted a laughingly cavalier air.

When Faucci's esteemed team gave a damning report
Donny dismissed it and them with a derisive snort,
And that's when the Department of Infectious Diseases
Knew they'd be better directing their pleas to Jesus.

Though in their professional opinion covid was here to stay
Doctor Don proscribed that the virus would fade... away...
Don miserably failed to see a pandemic in the making
Or his inaction would lead to a Great grave undertaking.

Other than stopping Mueller sniffing 'round his affairs
Don's real interest remains in healthy stocks and shares,
The man is unhealthily invested in private enterprise;
Who cares if the world outside Wall Street lives or dies?

So for months now, all while the deadly virus raged
Trump soaked up the atmosphere in the rallies he staged,
Showering his crowd with promises, left 'em in GreaT cheer,
They couldn't wait to pass his message on to their near and dear.

He loved how they had simply taken him to their heart
While feeling no need or desire to stay a good six feet apart,
As he, safe and smug behind his mask of delusional self-belief
Believed no virus could dare pass on to the Commander-in-Chief.

Roaming freely, flitting and flying all over the place,
Pushing his agenda, getting Right in everyones face,
Disavowing taking a knee (unless you're using the Force)
Turning all rational debate into anti-social intercourse.

Till came a gathering, the infamous Rose Garden party
Where Don failed to smell when someone cut the havarti,
Immediately the question of a toxic President arose,
A quick Q-tip test positively getting right up Don's nose.

Don and his wife were laid low in their sick bed,
Don felt a pounding upside his boogery thick head;
Got the chills, got a hot fever and runny snotty cough,
Perhaps he had been ill-advised to leave his mask off?

But Don isn't one to lie quietly back and take Doctors orders,
He's not bound to remain idling behind Walter Reed's borders,
There's an election to rig run so Don busts out of quarantine!
Why, does he want to be seen in the back of a black limousine?

With all the best polls (excluding Hannity and Friends)
Signalling that after four years his GreaTness now ends,
He needs to leave us a lasting legacy, on top of his border wall
So he's commissioned a portrait so as to look down on us all.

(The forty-fifth President will join that esteemed list
Of Presidents who, once gone, won't be sorely missed,
'Twould be a marvel if Don ever joined the Fantastic Four-
Those icons standing stone-faced up on Mount Rushmore.)

He's going at warp speed ensuring his fine face won't be forgot-
In case in future he'll be known by the number on his mug shot-
An artistic genius might possibly portray Don as just badly painted
But even hallowed Mike Pence knows Don can't ever be sainted.

Come November, when Donald is resigned to his fate
He'll be immortalised in an uncommonly gaudy portrait,
He's sure going to stand out from all the other ex-Presidents,
The very picture of wilful ignorance and unmasked arrogance.