A Call From Your Neighborly Kiwis.
Scotty, pal, mate, sorry to interrupt your holiday,
You’re hot and frazzled but we’ve something to say,
We’ve put up with becoming the dumping ground
For the Kiwi criminal element you’ve forensicly found.
We don’t mind your cricketers condescending views,
We don’t mind pitching over the ditch fresh fire crews,
We Kiwis don’t mind being the butt of your every joke,
But Scott, don’t dump on us with your second hand smoke.
Feastive Season, Festive Air.
That’s another Christmas meal complete,
Once again I’ve had far too much to eat,
Now here I sit, heavily settling in my seat,
Next, the dessert round, but first, the prickly heat.
I swore this year to avoid Ma’s tasty treat
But World Peace demands I keep her sweet,
And as the belt on my pants buckles in defeat-
Same ol’ story as last year, I’m bound to repeat.
Too Long To List.
Santa’s made his list and closed his book,
On Christmas day naughty boys will vainly look
For all they’ve wanted, but they’ll be looking sad,
Certainly for a certain one who’s been bad- too bad.
That rascal is up at dawn on Christmas day,
He’s been perfectly good… well, in his own way,
Donny looks at his super-sized Christmas stocking,
Flapping on the Mar-a-lago mantle, empty, mocking.
On the stocking is pinned a note,
In explanation Saint Nick kindly wrote:
‘Sorry old son, my limit’s been reached,
Maybe next year, if you ain’t impeached.’
Tender Mercies.
Donald’s pardoned a turkey at Thanksgiving,
That bird can walk free and scratch out its living
Freed from thoughts of the chop and of harm,
Given free rein to range, down on the farm.
Donald knows this pardon is his Presidential right,
But he does possess a gross and base appetite,
To his ravening hunger he’s already succumbing,
Sadly, for one plucky turkey, Christmas is coming.
Donald has guaranteed to let that turkey strut-
But Don’s promise does come from with his but,
Stupid bird, to take Don’s solemn word on trust-
Just another turkey Donald’s stuffed and trussed.
A Nest Of One’s Own.
We had all grown weary of the madding crowd,
Of the Apples pings, the Samsungs same old song,
The constant city clamouring had grown too loud,
We knew we’d been cooped up here far too long.
So we sought out a quiet country retreat,
Time, time to leave the big brash city behind,
To just chill, to swill a Sauvignon sooo sweet,
One to wash the city’s cares from one’s mind.
At the Te Kopura lodge we quietly took in the scenery,
The birds and the bees, the boat shed, the duck pond,
A haven of sweet silence, an oasis of lush greenery,
Glass in hand, down to the tinkling waters we swanned.
What dark apparition we found we had stirred
Up in the quiet backwaters of the Wairarapa?
This was one mightily ruffled honking big bird,
A black swan that thinks it’s a bloody snapper.
I blame that hissy pissed-off overly-territorial swan
For my spilling my fave Sav, sadly reducing me to Shiraz,
That swan done put me sat down plumb on my sit-upon
As I hastily backed away to land heavily on- the grass.
Still, at suppertime as I pecked at the chicken roast
I felt the need to stand, to raise my elbow from the bar,
And to the fine company gathered I offered up my toast;
‘To fine wine, fine food, to scrambled eggs and foie gras.’
Hit It Off.
We’d take in a long road trip getting to our holiday destination
So we settled back after settling on the good old Oldies station,
On cruise control we hummed along, signal clear and loud and strong,
Golden oldies, transported back to the old days for which we long.
But on this long trip, something felt strange indeed,
Today our treasured songs sounded somewhat hackneyed,
Every song they played we’d heard many times before,
All too soon my partner in harmony started to snore.
I heard the Eagles reiterate their Californian lament
And just as I thought they’d never leave, they went,
Up until now I’d found them soothingly appealing,
Two songs later I’d lost that peaceful easy feeling.
On the hour I was treated to the best of Fleetwwod Mac,
Six of the best (and the rest) back to back to back,
Ten minutes later and again, the Eagles were checkin’ in,
Now those turkeys welcome was beginin’ to wear thin.
But so long as as my beloved lay a’lolling in her seat
I vowed to listen to whatever sins songs they’d repeat,
‘Tween that and the snoring from my sweet somnolent wife
I spent the most boring day I’ve ever heard in my life.
I swear I’d hand Mephistopheles my tarnished soul
To save me hearing another tinkling trill by Billy Joel,
I’m so over the tragedys of ‘Staying Alive’ and ‘Jive Talking’
-Anything in the catalogue of adenoidal Bee Gees squawking.
Back then, this guy was the most avid champion of Queen,
Now, let’s say this fan of flamboyant Freddie is a has-been,
All that Rhapsodic bombast- oh, and on that histrionic note
I’d love to cram Meatloaf’s every last word down his throat.
Let’s not forget the gals, like the countrified poppy Shania Twain
And her patented line-dancing toons that tap deep into your brain,
And once I loved the pitch and depth in that song by Celine Dione…
But now, couldn’t she just Jack it in, and not go on and on and on…
I drove on, the sun shone on, morning dragged into the afternoon,
Every familiar song had me hope my darling would wake up- soon,
As the miles and day wore on my sore eyes and ears began burning;
More Fleetwood Mac- or a dodgy Big Mac- set my stomach churning.
At sunset I heard a yawn and saw my sleeping beauty had awoken,
At last, along with her spell, my unwanted record could be broken,
Off went the radio, and to say the silence was awkward wasn’t wrong;
So much for happy trails, reminiscences, and a jolly good ol’ singalong
A Spartan Holiday.
G and T visited the mythical mystical Island of Rhodes
Where old monuments abound and the vistas are stunning,
They stayed in historic abodes complete with crusty commodes,
Given the culture, the history
It’s more a tragedy than a mystery
That no-ones been civilized enough to get the water running.
Imagine settling down ones sensitive New Age derriere
On a vessel that’s been round since Homers homecoming?
Personally I find clean modern and convenient a breath of fresh air,
And I prefer to express, at leisure,
Unconstrained by time, or tide- or short measure;
I’d take any cheap plastic seat over this half-assed tin pot plumbing.
