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?
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.
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.
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.
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
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?
Toss In The Towel.
Poor Stephen Kearney, Warriors coach, he’s had it tough,
Dealing with myopic moronic inept referees is bad enough
But he has to try to coach Warriors who have ‘focus Issues,’
A team trait that’s had his many predecessors reach for the tissues.
The Canberra Raiders waltz in to the Warriors home town;
By half time our unlucky Warriors are already thirty points down,
The players wonder why Sweet-As Stevie Cuzzy Bro’s mood is foul-
Just ’cause the boys haven’t turned up he’s throwing in the towel.
They feel for Steve, but ‘Hey Bro, chill it’s just another Saturday,
Win or lose, we Warriors get well paid, even if we can’t, well… play,’
No wonder poor Steve looks lost, dismayed, distraught and distressed
That’s the attitude that has him clawing at his hair, and, soon, his chest,
This dispiriting woeful effort is the latest blow to the Warrior coaches pride,
Alas, poor Kearney, another aspiring coach whose spirit has just died,
It’s his lot to join that sorry lot of ex- Warriors coaches Stevies a broken man-
Well, Stephen, welcome to the club, you’re not the only broken-hearted ex-fan.
Ask any woolly-headed mountaineer
What drives them, up here
And they say, with their rareified air
While looking down on you, ‘coz it’s there.’
A friend told me of ascending delights,
I told her of my morbid fear of heights,
She told me my fears should be overcome;
Time to step up, not succumb.
In front of my supposed peers
I could put behind me all my fears,
Now I see those fears as well founded
And I wish I’d stayed better grounded.
At crack ‘o dawn the nightmare began,
After four hours in a jam-packed van
I stepped out to see Mount Aspiring,
A sight that left me coldly perspiring.
Twelve keen climbers looked out on yon hill,
Of no concern to climbers of moderate skill,
But I gazed up at that peak with trepidation
And made it my business to find a comfort station.
Then they showed me the ropes, and the carabiner,
This lash-up did nothing to cheer my demeanour,
Jokes about being in this all together
Left me literally at the end of my tether.
Then we set off on the epic trek,
Five minutes left me a wheezing wreck,
Then when the misty schist turned to snow
I glanced longingly at the land, far below.
My friend, so sweet, so kind
Seemed sick of dragging my sorry behind,
She frowned down as I was looking up,
I think she regretted us hooking up.
From above we heard someone stumble.
Our sure-footed leader had taken a tumble
And as far as as this learner climber could tell
Our chance to reach our peak drastically fell.
Flashing past us our leader flew
Followed by his ashen number two,
Then numbers three to nine…
And so on, down the line.
My ascent had been a slow tedious climb
Still, my descent could be in record time,
And I raised my eyes in the fervent hope
I wasn’t at the end of my bloody rope.
We had one chance at life-
I saw her sawing with her knife;
Such heartfelt prayers are said
When life is hanging by a thread.
As the rope grew taut
I felt our time grow short
She sliced and diced madly but
Sadly, we never made the final cut.
We felt our hopes begin to slide
As the trusty rope stayed firmly tied,
Her old social climbers became a drag
Till their declining friendship hit a snag.
We rushed towards the deadly drop
Only to be crushed against a rocky outcrop,
The pain of the impact one would not believe,
But the agony of the wedgie I could not conceive.
We’d stretched our luck, I’m afraid,
For though the rope was thin and frayed
We watched our future possibilities unravel
Both knowing we were highly sick of travel.
Came a sound, like a rifle shot
And we were free of that clinging lot,
Climbing down, a mutual passion was found,
Safely down, we fell together, kissed the ground.
So read and heed the morale. gentle reader,
Don’t fall in the footsteps of your leader,
And don’t get roped in with your friends.
Here their sad sob story stickily ends.
Down In Hudddersfield Town.
Huddersfield Town’s future, so bright last June
Finally faded at Crystal Palace this dull afternoon,
It’s bound to be a silent, sad, sombre- and sober- coach trip
As the Terriers head back up North, down to the Championship.
By Xmas, Town knew it was gonna be tough at the top
But it’s a lot rougher when you’re the first team to drop,
To survive in the Premier League is a simple numbers game;
When Town tote up their losses all it amounts to is a crying shame.
If only Huddersfield’s brittle defence had been stronger
Or if their busy goalkeepers arms had been a little longer,
Or if they had a striker- or two- to pop in an occasional winner
The Terriers season mightn’t be finishing up a total dogs dinner.
Shake It Off.
I’m not saying I’m a religious man,
I’m more a godless Crystal Palace fan,
But trying to follow Hodgson’s odd squad
Leaves me believing there’s a devil, swear to God.
Off we went to Vicarage Road,
On the train up we drank- a load,
Arriving in a giddy state of inebriation,
But our loss meant ’twas premature celebration.
We’d gone into the Hornets nest and been sorely stung,
Now I stand, swaying, with heavy heart and head hung,
Thinking of how, again, our dreams of an FA Cup final
Swirl away, down the drain of a poxy Watford urina