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.)

Ah, the romance of a Route 66 road trip. Why bother overnighting at some manky Motel 6?

That Holiday Air.

We breezed into the Brunswick, followed our noses to the dining room,
'Twas a romantic hideaway boutiquey newly tarted-up historic hotel,
But when in authentic 30s Kingman hot young lovers cannot assume
Their Arizonan night of heavenly pleasures won't come -or go- to hell.

The owners had been penny wise when fitting out the Brunswick,
True to its history they'd turned to every possible cheap trick,
An attempt to retain all original features, all part of the plan;
So, creaking bedsprings and no air-con 'cept for the ol' ceiling fan.

Outside, a high desert wind buffeted the shuttered window pane,
Inside, an ill wind blew no good, thanks to a lousy hotels buffet,
Dawn saw the leaving of two wretches who will not return again,
Now neither of us talk of, much less wish to repeat that sorry day.

(Written for Chel Owens A Mused poetry competition. Slightly modified from her PG13 requirement.) This less than top rank effort contains a touch of poetically licensed exaggeration yet embarrassingly retains more than a whiff of pure unadulterated truth.

Halloween; is it a crime against inhumanity? Food for thought.

What A Hollow Halloween.

Being the prize pick of the pumpkin patch
Come November comes with a nasty catch,
Being soft and tender, sweet as pumpkin pie
Don't mean Jack when Halloween is nigh.

Once the father came to weigh up his choice
Being top o' the crop gave me no cause to rejoice
But 'twas only when the mother cut me from the vine
This prime pumpkin knew it was the end of the line.

So this orange squash's future's turned to soup,
It cuts me up to see me reduced, scoop by scoop
Until I'm left, a grinning rictus of an empty shell;
Does my tasteless tale turn your insides as well?
Pure pulp fiction.

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.

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?

Once you’ve finally managed to dredge your team up to the Premier League in English football the hard work isn’t over, it’s only just beginning. Along with the glory comes a scant few ups, quite a few more downs, plus another almost certain pitfall- just ask any committed West Bromwich Albion fan.

Temporarily Promoted.

That West Bromwich Albion crowd are all celebrating again,
There’ll be cheers and beers being hurled in Halfords Lane,
Navy and white scarves will abound around Old Birmingham town,
At least till next May when, historically they’re bound to go down.

The Albion are one of those teams that drive loyal fans to drink,
All season long, nailed to the table bottom or clinging on the brink,
The Baggies, back in in their regulation spot, flirting with relegation-
At least of late poor Aston Villa fans can sympathise with that situation.

Still, congratulations! on becoming Birminghams second best,
Now two bum *Brum fans can still share in one common interest,
For one season the twain are Premier League teams, and so sitting pretty,
Both loving lording it over mutually loathed Wolves and Birmingham City.

*Appellation the lucky locals use for Birmingham.

©Obbverse

Neil Young sues Trump over use of his music at Don’s fist-pumping rabble-rousing rallys. Good luck on getting Don to hear anything about that, Neil.

A Kick To The Chorus.

Once again Mr Trump’s re-election campaign
Is giving Neil Young cause to legally complain,
Neil’s getting grumpy that his copyrighted songs
Are being illegally played to promote Don’s wrongs.

Shouldn’t one of Don’s army of attorneys kindly explain
To Don that old Young’s tunes ain’t in the public domain?
All the plaintiff Neil wishes is for Don to cease and desist
From ripping his songs off and on to Don’s lousy party list.

The Rolling Stones have led the chorus of complaints, in vain,
‘You can’t always get what you want’ remains Trump’s refrain,
Don, use Ted Nugent’s crap, Teddy loves you, or ask Kanye West-
No, mebbe not, the colourful Kanye mightn’t pass Don’s litmus test.

Will Donald simply turn his back on all noisy complaints again?
Treat true legitimate protests with his usual dismissive disdain?
Well, the Rolling Stones have screamed at Don to stop for years-
It appears there isn’t a great deal resonating between dumb ears.

 

©Obbverse

This Covid-19 panic-buying is simply sick, bordering on the irrational. Just wander down to your local Ralph’s and observe, if you dare.

Patience, Zero.

I’m sick of staying home, and bored,
All that sage advice would be ignored,
I went down to Ralph’s, I joined the horde;
No-one tells this shopper ‘don’t go overboard.’

There’s folk flippin’ out all over the place-
C’mon guys, give a man some personal space-
I need to grab a few more toilet rolls, just in case-
And don’t dare laugh, splutter or cough in my face.

When my sweet spouse
Saw me out of the house
She handed me a gunny sack
Said, ‘fill it or don’t come back.’

Yes, I have my ID, why do you ask?
Oh yeah, I’m hidden behind my mask,
I’ve been charged with but one lawful task,
‘More toilet rolls and sanitizer, buy the cask.’

My hands are full of toilet rolls, the full gross,
Cashier, keep your distance, don’t come too close,
I’ll swipe my card, gimme my receipt and I’ll say ‘adios,’
I should be home, in my sick bed, not risking a second dose.

 

©Obbverse.

The year grinds on. Even at the very end of 2019 another bright thread in life’s rich sweet and idiotically human tapestry sparks out. Goodbye, Neil Innes. In the comedy of life, his timing was impeccable.

Fresh Wound.

Here we are on December Thirty-First,
I’ll be glad when this accursed year is done,
This stinking year must rank down with our worst,
But we don’t care- or dare- to dig up that sorrier one.

I was chillin’ in the car when the news came on,
Then the fuggy atmosphere grew a degree colder,
Neil Innes, immortal eccentric English wit has gone!?
The words I heard drove me over onto the hard shoulder.

What a way to wrap up a bad year’s news,
With a sigh but a rueful grin I wiped a tear away,
With his Python bits, Ruttle skits Innes would amuse,
He’s left us with a song and a smile, this dogs’s had his day

 

©Obbverse

September 19th staggers along again. Birthdays can take on a bittersweet quality after the party’s over.

Sup, Bro?

All things must pass;
Still, lets raise a glass
To gone-too-soon Chet,
No, not forgotten just yet.

He’d not want us to cry,
He’d rather see a dry eye,
He was all about fun and laughs
And his life was never lived by halves.

Now, if he were standing here
He’d say ‘Cheers’ and sink his beer,
So here’s to a fine uncle and big brother,
And, thinking of Chet, who’s keen on another?

 

©Obbverse