Getting The Clause Out.
Should Mr Cohen’s well-heeled client stray,
Forsake the vows stated on his wedding day,
Take the chance to combine both golf, and play,
Mr Cohen maintains what he’s been retained to say.
But Mr Cohen’s having to work for his pay,
Stormy’s accusations aren’t just blowing away,
Her tongue keeps wagging in a most malicious way,
His advice to the client is ‘assume the position, and pray.’
Press Pass.
I awaited the New Press with eager eyes,
They looked, downcast, at its meagre size,
I’d heard there’d be much content within;
That argument is most evidently paper thin.
Apart from yesterdays news or next weeks TV guide,
My purchase of the Press can no longer be justified,
Claiming ‘less is more’ does not jibe with this scribe;
This is a poor wee paper to which I cannot subscribe.
Bob Dylan Walking Talking Hypochondriac Blues.
I felt moved to put on the trainers today,
The autumnal sky a riot of grey upon grey,
To step out without a parka was tempting fate-
Next time I won’t be so unthinkingly precipitate.
I prefer to exorcise my thoughts on my own,
Soothed by iTunes, ear buds and the iPhone,
To put behind me ruminations of nuclear cataclysms,
Pounding the pavement is good for the biorythms.
I trundled along as a downloaded Dylan setlist played,
Bob mournfully sayin’ how far from home he’d strayed,
When I saw a flash of lightning, and after a moments pause
A thunder clap, then from Heavens above down she pours.
Four miles from home and soaked to the skin,
Without my parka ’twas quite the pickle I was in,
My nice new blue Nikes turning an execreble brown,
Pristine white socks bleeding blue as it pis hissed down.
Four miles splashing home was a long hard haul,
Not helped by Bob’s jolly ‘A Hard Rains A-Gonna Fall’
After ‘Buckets Of Rain’ then ‘Shelter From The Storm’
A coolness towards Bob’s insights had begun to form.
All the way home the storm continued to rage,
It hadn’t rained like this since Noah’s Archaic age,
All my miserable way home the rains continued to lash,
Arrived freezing, sporting sodden shirt shorts and a rash.
So now I’m laid low in bed with a bad case of croup,
My wife offers no sympathy but a bowl of chicken soup,
With trembling hands and lips I croaked a pitiable ‘Thank you,’
She left for work, shaking her head, sniffily saying ‘Man Flu.’
But I knew I was sickening, convinced I was getting worse,
So I staggered to the Doctors, to be told to wait by the nurse,
Here I wait shivering, in anticipation some good Doctor shows up
Before this long suffering drip turns his chillblained toes up.
International Men Of Mystery.
Is it not great to see the blooming Bromance
Between the Presidents of the great States, and France?
First chummy handshakes, then Gallic hugs and air kisses
On cheeks that turned to receive more hits than misses.
My, don’t those two guys get on well?
There is a kinship there, can’t you tell?
As they clown around like kid and older brother
Their wives look quizzically on, one to the other.
Brigitte’s beginning to wonder if she’s lost her mystique,
Melania’s inclined to believe Dons Stormy denials after this week,
Now Mrs Trump and Mrs Macrom may call to console Mses Clinton and Merkel,
Their two jerks ain’t inclined to invite many woman into the Old Boys circle.
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.
Ruling The Changes.
The good King of Swaziland
With one sweep of his hand-
Not to mention a Kingly decree-
Now reigns over the Kingdom of eSwatini.
For the Kingdoms King
It has a less colonial ring,
Old British tethers, now unbound;
His Majesty’s reasoning sounds sound.
Map makers the whole world through
Are left with reams of work to do, and undo,
The Kingdoms King revels in the change of name,
For his poor but loyal subjects life goes on the same.
Hear Say.
If you’re in Houston and place an emergency call
Crenshanda Williams won’t be concerned at all,
Whatever dire emergency you wish to report
Crenshanda likes to keep calls concise, and short.
All she wants at her workplace is contemplative quietude
But people insist on calling in and killing the mood,
All these people saying it’s a matter of life and death,
Her curt advice to them is to save their breath.
Crenshanda was told at her last workplace review
‘Answering emergency dispatches ain’t the calling for you,’
She won’t be working long here, that’s the word I hear,
Crenshanda’s being thrown out on her unsympathetic ear.
