Category Archives: hair

Theresa May, Boris Johnson, Donald Trump all set to collide in an uneasy meeting of the minds.

Hands Off.

Poor Theresa May is finding this leaving lark tough,
Trump is coming a’calling just when Boris calls her bluff,
Boris’ untimely and boorish approach she should rebuff-
She ain’t no bloody Boadicea, but she’s made of stern stuff-
But she is oh so tempted to hand it to that tousle-haired scruff.

Let Bo take the tiny hand that slithers from the silken cuff,
A pedicured pampered hand, yet a touch… course and rough,
Let them bond over common interests; trade, markets, dandruff?
But Tess does know one red white and blue bastard is quite enough,
So she’ll smile, lie and try to think of England and not stalk off in a huff.

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An Athletic Weirdo In London. A story that keeps on coming back to haunt me, you might say. (A bit of a companion piece to ‘Waking up in the morning with that dawning feeling.’)

Everybody Hates Lycra.

Most of the month I’m a good company drone,
Working assiduously away, like a dog with a bone,
But I’ve been cooped up in my little box too long,
The need to get out on a run was growing strong.

The spring sun was sinking like a bloody big ball,
But you’ve time yet to safely run before nightfall,
And tonight heralds the new moon, so big and bold
With its promise of gilding these grey streets in gold.

How mind and body yearned to be out of this cubicle,
To run free, unconfined ‘neath a moon bright and full,
It’s an old primordial feeling, this feeling, passing strange,
I loosened my tie, went to the rest room, began to change.

Down the stairs, access the door-
The security keypad is such a  chore-
Then the feel of the wind in my hair
As I lope along without worry or care.

Bounding easily along I enter the misty park,
I run without fear of being accosted in the dark,
I might meet the odd ner’do’well, up to no good
But there’s few fleeter than I in this neighborhood.

Soon the park and the streetlights are put behind me;
If I lost my way in these woods who could ever find me?
I thanked my lucky stars for the bright enlightening moon;
I’d met others in the dark past who’d met with… misfortune.

Then I spied someone who looks well off track,
Someone for whom things were looking black,
A lycraed cyclist, the personification of despair,
Astride his cycle, wearing a most deflated air.

He cursed his expensive cycle, he cursed his wretched luck,
He cursed the stupid tyre in which a stupid brad had stuck,
His little backwoods trail had proved to be a bit of a trial,
And I’ll admit I viewed his predicament with a wolfish smile.

I lurked in the shadow, but thanks to a stray moonbeam
I was seen, and the cyclist let loose a hair-raising scream,
He bounded off into the brush, and I followed that sound-
The man seemed to think he was being chased by a Hellhound.

Perhaps he saw the mean hungry look in my lean hungry face,
He led me a merry chase, and I felt compelled to up the pace,
He fairly flew up a creeks rocky bank with reckless abandon,
One ping of a hamstring, he won’t have a leg to stand on.

But he crested the ridge safely, and I then heard a splash,
I leapt in in pursuit but my chase rapidly turned slap dash,
It’s no fun for a werewolf watching his prey skedaddling-
Left up the creek, reduced to whining and dog paddling.

A month later and I shrug off work;
By a certain forest trail I bide and lurk,
And once again the trusty moon reveals
The athlete I think of as meals on wheels.

…………………………………………………………..

If you feel, some moonlit night
To wander out for a late nite bite
Don’t chase and wolf down a triathlete,
They’re sinewy, tough, and bound to repeat.
 

Another one to throw out there, off the top of my head. Much like the dashing debonair pompadoured Donald did, actually.

Thin Skinned And Thick Headed.

Don’s having a bad hair day today, lets be blunt,
It sits imposingly on his head, but back to front,
It’s thick- ever so thick, from hairline to crown,
Long enough to slick it back and stick it down.

There its lacquered and all but tacked in place;
For a balding man he’s got it all ass-about face,
Donald is inordinatly proud of his golden mane
But one puff of wind shows it is all in vain.