Category Archives: humor

What thoughts spring to the Mighty Ones mind as we march towards the third of November?

Going Postal.

A day after another inauspicious red letter day-
150,000 Coronavirus victims went on their way-
Donald turns away from figures that make him squirm
And focuses his GreaT mind on securing a second term.

Dons polling is of concern, despite what he does say,
From where he sits perhaps its time to kneel and pray?
Or since Roger Stone’s now free to come up with a suggestion
He’ll open the whole Democratic Election system into question?

In his empowered position Don feels a powerful need to stay,
So now’s no better time to suggest just a slight election day delay,
An election free of mail voting, who could think of anything greater?
Like his Pandemic plan Don vows he’s bound to get to it, sooner or… later.

©Obbverse

Leading the conservative political party in New Zealand can be a short term proposition. (Awww, a sad Tory story.)

Devils And The Deep Blue Sea.

What’s happening to the National Party’s leadership?
Each new leader they select sees the Party’s popularity slip,
Since Commodore Key left leaving First Mate Billy the wheel
Helming the Titanic rather than the Blue Boat holds more appeal.

Old Bill, wise but dull as dishwater- his fortunes sank,
So Simon stepped up from the poop deck to higher rank,
Sadly Simon was simply out of his depth, young and green,
Under Simon the the boat- and votes- slid down like a submarine.

All too soon ’twas a grim story poor Simons opinion polls told,
Up from the mutinous crew stepped Todd, and Simon was rolled,
So a new Cap’n took the helm,  they say the cream rises to the top,
But after a mere 67 days Captain Presumptuous found he was a flop.

Now Todd’s dream boat has sailed,
Another Leader’s bottled it and bailed,
The True Blue Crew ran about, looking around
But good fresh new Blue blood’s thin on the ground.

Now hard embittered Old School Jude-vcious runs the barge,
Tryin’ to clean up her shit ship even as Deputy Gerry looms large,
In her steely claw the National scow’s bound to take a hard Right turn,
Losing middle ground rowing in ever decreasing circles- that’s her concern.

 

©Obbverse

Just for a change let’s have a chit-chat about the shi- weird weather. Ah well, into each life a little rain must fall.

Aqualand.

The late autumn sun setting in a blaze of glory
Put me in mind of that hoary old wive story-
‘Red sky at night brings the shepherd delight,’
Well, even wise old wives ain’t always right.

Before bed I looked out at the wildening sky,
Stepped out for a moment with questioning eye,
Under the rusting verandah in dire need of replacing
The wind whistling through me felt more than bracing.

As the wind whipped the dust from the rusted spouting
My faith in those wise old wives tales I started doubting,
The temperature was tumbling even as I numbly stood
‘Neath a stormy sky and an ill wind blowing no good.

High up in the Heavens something nasty was brewing,
Not God literally; my belief in Him remains nothing doing,
But that wind filled this soul with dread and apprehension,
I felt it in my water (and somewhere else I daren’t mention.)

After replenishing my hot water bottle from the hot tap
I set off to bed, tossing an ice-cube to my nightly nightcap
Only to waken at exactly midnight to either rain on the roof
Or some hoofer tap-dancing up there with heavy cloven hoof.

I wondered if I had been wrong and Judgement Day had come…
But time passed, and on high the rain and hail continued to drum,
So I realised I was still here on Earth, but Hell, it was pissing down-
Now concerned my rosemary, thyme and garden gnome might drown.

Peering anxiously out into the cold deep dark
My small holding looked more like a water park,
In the strobing lightning flashes I saw a sea of mud,
In the morn I’d step off our stoop and into the flood.

Come noon and we’d not seen the effulgent glow of the sun,
Ten inches dumped and *Ol’Send It Down Huey’s not yet done,
Heavens, I feel I must take a good book to bed to pore o’er tonight,
‘Boat-building For Beginners’, the Bible of the amateur Ark-wright.

*Australian entreaty to God to dump down a deluge of rain in times of drought.

 

©Obbverse

Walking through the backwaters of the ol’ neighbourhood I literally stumbled over a leafy landmark. So I sat back on the grass and recalled days of rash deeds, youthful foolishness and pure dumb luck.

Barking.

My young bro had a best buddy, Carl ‘Crazy’ Miller,
This singular boy did not possess one single scintilla
Of simple common sense the Maker bestows on mankind;
Carl could be big trouble, but very little troubled his mind.

Carl was a prospective member of the Punch  Bunch-
The kids who only went to school to share your lunch?
By the time Crazy had attained the heady age of eleven
‘Twas obvious he wouldn’t be heading to Varsity, or heaven.

Anyway, down at the dead end of desolate Ingoldsby Street
The long promised demolition of a fine old fixture, complete;
The barn-like Theresa Green Home For Refined Retired Gentlefolk
Finally lay laid waste, ‘neath the shadow of a high and mighty oak.

My brother and Carl, being at that tender age-
Before girls turn one’s head and hormones rage,
Before teenage hi-jinks result in serving hard time-
Saw a tree sat on now public land, and free to climb.

Previously protected behind a palisade ten feet tall,
Its private land and croquet lawn, now turned over to all,
Carl’s eye beheld that crazed glint of the devil-may-care,
This oak would be Carl’s Everest and my bros nightmare.

Up a handy branch Crazy sprung, with a single bound,
With simian agility up he swung, foregoing safer ground,
Monkey see monkey do, my bro followed, but slowly, in kind,
Leaving those below looking up at bro, pale, dragging behind.

Halfway up bro heard the sound of dry wood snapping
Followed by Carl plummeting past, arms crazily flapping,
My brother followed Carl’s progress aaaaall the way down
Waiting for one stout branch to stave in Carl’s thick crown.

As a switch took a swatch of Carl’s curls it dawned on him
That if he hit this tree they could both lose a healthy limb-
Now the blood curdling uncontrolled bladder loosing scream,
Oh- did I mention this tree was perched by a tinkling stream?

This body of water was contained by a concrete culvert,
But wherever Carl chanced to land had to bloody well hurt,
Came the sound of a splash and his pals dashed out to aid him,
Amazingly, Crazy landed in water and, miraculously, could swim.

He waded out of the chill waters, shivering but safe, Christ be praised,
All gathered gazed on amazed, yet Carl looked imperturbably unfazed,
A bump on the noggin, a broken fingernail, but not one broken bone,
I’d say Carl had the luck o’ the devil- but he’s known to look after his own.

©Obbverse

Every writers nightmare; The answer, though, might be alighting right outside your window.

Grounded.

I’m really truly suffering through writers block,
I’ve reams of pure white virgin A4 stock,
Stacks of empty worded pages mock,
My inspiration soars, like a rock.

No matter how hard I try,
How I look up to the sky,
Lord on high knows why-
But my words won’t fly.

Thoughts scramble through my mind, tumble to the floor,
Once my brain and right hand had this great rapport,
This day all my high-falutin words serve but to bore-
And that bird wittering outside is the last straw! 

Guess I’ll lay down my quill and cease this fu- futile quest,
Broodily watch the machinations of a robin red breast,
Toss this page outside, inspirations gone West-
Hey, bird brain, take this shit to line your nest.

(inspired by a poem ‘Pretty Little Sparrow/Lauren M. Hancock
And the song ‘Look Over Your Shoulder’ by Alan Price.)

©Obbverse

No standing O in Oklahoma for Don’s empty performance. Sad!

Tulsa Turnaround.

The Trump Tribe were a’beating a path to his Tulsa rally,
The Okie dopey’s all a’lined up to be wowed by the high chief,
But today Donald’s high expectations for his crowd don’t tally,
Don’s claims for his latest GreatesT sell-out strain only belief.

Though rural Oklahoma’s no place Slick City Don wishes to dally
Still Donald’s speech rambles on, he wouldn’t think to make it brief,
His is the biggest shit-storm that’s ever blown down Tornado Alley-
Any protester he sees is a window-breaking rapacious pillaging thief.

Donald tries hard to work the thin crowd up to a cheering finale,
For those not his enamoured fans the limp end came as a grim relief,
It’s a climax as faked as Ms. Ryan evinced in ‘When Harry Met Sally,’
Perhaps here in the Big O is where Don’s re-election comes to grief?

 

©Obbverse

As the eyes of the watching world turn on a nation that is painfully- but finally- seeing a great history in the making, the President only looks to turn back the clock.

Faking History.

By mid 2020 Don’s cozy world felt more like Lost In Space,
All manner of irritations Donny finds he’s forced to face,
Covid deaths are on the up yet Wall Street keeps falling,
Employment’s soaring but work on his great wall is stalling.

Since George Floyd’s filmed death he/we can’t ignore
Police protestations of pure angelic innocence anymore,
Now innocent protesters can’t be bashed and battered?
Suddenly Don’s expected to believe black lives mattered?

Now racial profilings wrong, so’s a ‘random’ pat down search?
A Prez cain’t just gas it down his streets to some saints church?
All these twisted changes are apt to confuse a traditional man,
Soon they’ll be banning the Stars’n’Bars and the Ku Klux Klan!

Don yearns for the bad old days when places were segregated,
When cops pounded the beat and the streets were dominated,
Now strange changes seem to be happening at a gay old pace;
Sexist money honey grabbers now look obseletely out of place.

The idea of uniformly crushing discontent has GreaT appeal
But now even Generals want to bring the dogs of war to heel,
Even the Mighty Military now recommend a conciliatory tone,
Though they all know the one voice Don can hear is his drone.

Don had once heard that every argument should be two-sided
But since he always knows what’s best for all he’s long decided
To gather round him that guns’n’glory armed mob he Rightly favours-
His one change is ‘this speech ain’t free till ya’ll sign them covid waivers.’

It’s time to rally the dupes, to blow the dog-whistles, drop the wink,
To ramp up the racist rhetoric, ain’t no time to change minds, or think!
To call a rich Damn Yankee the Mouth of the South sounds a misnomer
But his sick message is bound to resound in unchanging Tulsa, Oklahoma.

©Obbverse

A tall but all too true tale from the waiting room. So who deserves to get the treatment today?

Nothing To Sniff At.

My poorly daughter had to take a Coronavirus test,
She had the rheumy eyes, the hacking racking cough,
The red rubbed raw philtrum, the sputum filled chest
That feels constrained by a corset that won’t shuck off.

She found the testy nurse testing her tough to forgive,
It’s no fun when Nurse Ratched gets right up your nose,
The diagnosis she bitchily delivered back was a ‘negative,’
That’s almost worth a bloody deviated septum I suppose.

Newly married, whole life ahead of the two of you, and then its all gone. Won’t someone tell him where he went wrong?

Misery Loves Company.

What I cannot abide
Is whatever spuriosities I spout
You won’t take my side-
My righteous words I never doubt.

I don’t roughly ride
Over the husbandly improvements you tout,
I hide my wounded pride
Behind folded arms and surly pout.

Lord knows I’ve tried
Laughing off all you witter about,
If you’d only shut up I’d
Have no need to shout.

‘Goodbye’ said my bride,
She cried ‘it’s over, I’m out,’
…Now it’s so lonesome inside
My strong silent empty redoubt.

©Obbverse.

Another Seventies Glam pop star now glimmers up high in the sky. Bye, Sweet Steve Priest.

Losing Our Sparkle.

Time has come to say goodbye to Steve Priest,
From this earthly contract he’s been released,
Bye,’Ballroom Blitz’ and ‘Fox On The Run,’
Finally Steve’s glitteringly Glam career is done.

Steve lays his heavy bass down at last,
Steve’s pounding beat is in the past,
Lets hope, as his Angel takes his spangly sleeve
He sweetly smiles and asks ‘are you ready, Steve?’

(So, yeah, okay, the last line makes more sense to the true Sweet fan.)

 

©Obbverse