Category Archives: irony

President Trump seeks answers to the question HE poses about his own personality? Well, he did ask.

Pity Party At Egos Anonymous.

Sometimes when you wake up feeling sad and blue
On a rare blue moon when doubt bedevils even you,
When the wife’s heart feels cold, the future looks bleak
It’s time to lay your burden down and stand up and speak.

Don is prepared to bare his very soul- if he must,
Though heeding others opinion fills him with disgust.

‘Hello, my name is Donald and I’m a Selfish Neurotic,
Though those in my party prefer the term ‘quixotic,’
And now, as I think back on four hard fraught years
Thinking of a future past November brings me to tears.’

‘Why, suddenly no-one wants to be my Bestie?
Now all my good ol’ boys and Yes-men detest me.’

It’s a rare privilege seeing this side of Donald J. Trump,
In many a throat there his mawkish tale raises a lump,
There he stands, a broken man with his token friends
Ever deeper into self-pitying he maudlinly descends.

‘So, everybody dislikes me because of my personality?’
For once everyone freely agrees with Don, like, totally.

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

Tennis star Novak Djokovic’s stubborn stance on playing through the pandemic proves problematic.

Return Of Service.

Oh, naive Novak Djokovic, where have you been?
Traipsing around Serbia, serving up Covid-nineteen?
Showing unmasked contempt for any possible vaccine
Till a routine swab returns results Novak hadn’t foreseen,
Novak was positive his snot samples would come back clean:
Gone from playing in open tournaments to staying in quarantine.

 

©Obbverse

How being a two-faced cocksure two-timing bastard can come back to bite you in the assets. Yep, there is a moral to this common story, it’s deep in the fine print.

Girl With A Problem.

There I sat, silently sipping in a darkened corner booth
Drinking in the boastings of the Big Man loudly holding court-
Into every bucket-full of bull-spit he’d toss in one grain of truth,
Oh, how I wished he would cut his overlong stories short.

Lewd tales of eyes meeting across a crowded bar-room,
Of another conquest in another cheap motel room tryst,
That heady mix of sweat, cheap wine and cheaper perfume-
All to tap another false first name on his ever-growing list.

How he craves to be his Locals centaur of attention,
Soaking in the adulation while his cronies toast to his excess,
His sweet wife innocently sat at home alone, she he doesn’t mention!
The times he’s deceived her would take him an eternity to confess!

He has those blue eyes and blond locks all the ladies like,
A bit of the bad boy’s readily displayed in his eyes, and pants,
His antenna’s always up for whenever any opportunity might strike,
He’s not the kind of nice guy to pass up a passing glance.

All the young dudes look up admiringly at their heroic stud
As the leopard-skin skirted cougar offers him her cocked eyebrow,
That lascivious look, that sultry smile guarantees that rush of blood,
They leave, his excitement as contained as skin-tight Levis allow…

…Dawn, and heavily hungover even as the day grows lighter
He clambers from the King-Size as his queen snoringly slumbers,
First, he sends a text to his wife truly saying he’s pulling an all-nighter,
Second, a tote up on his notebook proves he’s piling up the numbers.

Another night of cut and thrust has run its course
So he slides out the door, slips on his wedding band,
Returning to find his wife welcoming him home with a divorce
And a trusted friend there, offering her his guiding hand.

Didn’t you know she knew how little you thought of her?
Did you never stop and think, before swinging into action
That her fine up-standing friend and loyal family lawyer-come-lover
Found your affairs afforded us both relief and mutual satisfaction?

My free advice, should you be indiscrete
Is to keep your affairs quietly hushed up,
You’ll find it doesn’t come cheap when you cheat
If her lawyer didn’t disclose you signed a pre-nup.

©Obbverse

How to not go shooting in the woods. Prompted by the Chelsea Owens Hilarity contest. Oh, and sponsored by Smokey the Bear.

Dumber Jack.

Jack the Lad could barely wait to turn twenty-one,
To cast his vote, to drive, drink, (legal-like) and tote a gun,
To pick the biggest baddest gun you’ve ever seen,
To play the part, just like in that Soldier Of Fortune magazine.

Off out to the woods he went to bag him a bear,
Or a boar, a deer, doe or buck- a duck, Jack didn’t care,
Through thicket underbrush and bosk Jack barged,
In his blundering search only his smart phone wound up discharged.

As the warm autumnal sun began to wane
Our hunter looked for any game, in vain,
In his ceaseless aim he couldn’t, wouldn’t stop;
Still as graceless as a bull in a china shop.

There wasn’t a critter to be found for miles around
As he trampled his way through his unhappy hunting ground-
Finding fording a stream is done at a huntsman’s peril-
A cruel cool baptism resulting in blown-out knee and twisted barrel.

So, cold, wet, lost in the woods as it grows dark,
Sat nav and phone flat, ah, but Jack’s quite the bright spark,
His safety match strikes, the dry leaves catch fire!
Remains to be seen, if anyone ever finds Jacks funeral pyre.

The true believers are, of late, being beset by trials and tribulations. ‘Frinstance the attendees of the New Deliverance Evangelistic Church of Chesterfield.

And Then There’s The Bad News…

In the packed Chesterfield New Evangelical pews
The rapt congregants strained to hear the Good News,
Another finely inflected sermon by Bishop Gerry Glenn;
What comfort we took in his ringing words, back then.

With the blind faith that’s held true for two thousand years,
With eyes rolling up towards Heaven Glenn quelled all fears,
‘My God is mightier than any puny virus’ he sermonised,
Unfortunately, his theology proved to be compromised.

Now the mighty voice of God has faded away
And those left in his congregation quietly say
‘No one regrets being here to hear Glenn preach
but just how far and wide did his last words reach?’