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

Ringo Starr bashes his way to eighty. Good to see Richard’s still kicking that kit.

Starr Bright.

Happy 80th birthday, Ringo Starr,
Who’d have thought you’d come this far?
Does the oldest member of the worlds best band
Take a moment to bow his head and silently stand?

On his auspicious day there’s a tinge of regret
As he remembers the glory days of a great quartet,
Since he’d first set the Beatles beat on ‘Love Me Do,’
Time has now cruelly edited the Fab Four down to two.

©Obbverse

A prompt on Towel Day. Thanks, Douglas Adams, a one of a kind author. He’s up there, laughing at us, at least cosmically speaking. Thanks too, to Chelsea Ann Owens for the promptings.

Big Bang, Bath Towel And Beyond.

Irate ratepayer Arthur Dent was confoundedly annoyed
To find his house and home planet completely destroyed,
Luckily, the one poor excuse of a man Arthur had befriended
Was the perfect guy to accompany him when his world ended.

Ford Prefect was Arthur’s odd friends imperfect name-
A moniker once written oft on many an insurance claim-
Art never imagined his friend to be a bona fide illegal alien,
Born somewhere near Betelgeuse, not remotely mammalien.

Ford, once a wanderin’ scribe before his gig began to unravel
Knew his tenure on Earth was terminating, it’s nigh time to travel.

Ford had an inkling about this harmless planet he was stuck on
That in a twinkling Arthur would ask ‘where on Earth has it gone?’
Intergalactic Developers Inc saw Earth as an impediment to progress,
In their Universal view what harm is there in one itty-bitty bit of dirt less?

Ford, our hapless Intergalactic hitchhiker, earthbound and lost
In desperation stuck out a digital thumb, plus all fingers crossed,
Finding on wakening they had been both uplifted and stown away                                                    And all Arthur’s earthly goods had been spectacularly blown away.

Now all Arthur possessed was his towel slippers and tatty bath robe,
Scant protection for a mere human going up against an alien probe.

 

 

(Hmm, barely made it past chapter one;
Guess Doug’s tales and mine are done,
For to 250 words I’ve been constrained;
Read Doug’s book and be better entertained.)

©Obbverse

An ode to our odd old cat. Hey, it makes a break from dealing with all this gloomy covid crap! (And thanks to Lucys Works for the prompt.)

Old Gold.

From break fast through to sunset
Our gilt-flecked precious amber pet
Takes sole possession of our coverlet.

What deep dark thoughts prowl and creep,
In what feline fantasies does he lightly leap
As he lays his days away, fast asleep?

 

©Obbverse

The cheap-skate landlord’s dilemma; They get the key, you get the deposit. No backsies!

Flight Risk.

I see the ranks of homing pigeons swoop and soar,
There’s gotta be a flocking thousand of ’em or more,
They wheel o’erhead, hovering high above the low rise I let,
Leasing the ‘penthouse’ out too cheap is one deep abiding regret.

I was glad to sign the lease for that seedy top floor-
A two-year ironclad deal is what a landlord prays for,
But concern is building due to his installing a pigeon coop aloft,
It’s not the constant cooing from on high, more the elevated waft.

The whirring of the wings above is impossible to ignore,
The sourness of signing off on a bad deal sticks in my craw,
As birds keep landing on my landing my dim view’s growing dark,
It’s not all their swooping but their pooping that’s leaving its mark.

 

Prompted by Chelsea Ann Owens Weekly Hilarity Contest.

©Obbverse

Every time I think I’ve met the perfect woman some tiny little flaw seems to ruin my hopes of bliss. I can’t imagine why.

Everybody’s Best Bud.

After being rudely ejected from the Nags Head
I wandered up to the Star’s bar and woozily said
‘Barkeep, I’d like a shot of Johnny Walker Black-
Better bring the bottle, save you coming back.’

‘Hey, I’ll sip here quietly, leant against the wall,
Hey, you won’t even know I’m here till last call,
Good old Johnny is company enough for me,
He’s all I’ll need to help erase her memory.’

She wanted the ‘security’ marriage brings,
My freedom in exchange for two cheap rings,
My fancy-free days have come at quite a cost,
She showed me her door, told me to get lost.

Could she dump me so easily out of her apartment?
Forgetting the week I once chipped in with the rent?
The time I selflessly cleaned out the beer refrigerator?
So now she says I’m a drunken loser and see ya later?

She heaved me out, left me with no place to go,
Barkeep, I hardly had a chance to grab a momento,
I took her cookie jar, to remind me of the good times,
I swear it’s mine it’s chock-full of hard-sworn dimes.

Finally everyone but the barkeep and I had moved on,
The time was nigh, even my friend John had gone,
Then for the second time today I was shown the door-
Barkeep, ain’t no hospitality in your business anymore.

Twice this day this bum’s been kicked to the street,
This time by a size fourteen foot direct to my seat,
I tumbled to the pavement, my head began to spin
Staggered he could toss me out in the state I was in.

Another one to add to the list of ‘you’re barred’ bars
It felt fitting to lay there, alone, looking up at the stars
As mien host locked up and pulled down the shutters;
Yet another night, sleeping tight in the Gorbals gutters.

(The Gorbals is  a less-than-salubrious part of peaceful bonny Glasgow town.)

 

©Obbverse

The legendary Stirling Moss, a blast from the past, has passed.

Off The Grid.

The final flag has fallen for Stirling Moss,
His stirling record now shows his last loss,
He enjoyed his 90 years on Gods green earth,
He lived and loved the fast life for all it’s worth.

Countless female fan’s hearts and great races breezily won,
Yet somehow fated never to top the podium in Formula One,
So now with a backwards smile wreathing his never beaten face
He so easily leaves us mere mortals behind and steps up a place.

 

©Obbverse

There’s social distancing and then there’s anti-social dipsticks. Another sad but true story.

Easter Eggs.

I went for a contemplative stroll this Easter weekend,
Round our slow lazy river I thought I’d quietly wend,
Then three dumb asses came roaring round the bend.

Three Bandidos blasted past, patched and proud,
Three buddies passing a pipe- that’s not allowed.

It was Mesrrs Harley and Davidson plus their Indian friend,
It’s an unmuffled and strident message those bad boys send,
Just what part of ‘quiet Easter weekend’ can’t they comprehend?

A party of three, in days when three’s a crowd?
Three Bandidos two many, and too fucking loud.

 

(Egg is a Kiwi term for a dipstick/dipshit/dickhead/dropkick, etc.)

 

©Obbverse

Boris Johnson’s Diary: A lady’s man laid low.

Boris’s Bed-time Story.

Boris is in our prayers and in our thoughts,
I do  so hope Boris recovers from his nasty scare,
He’s feverishly chatting away, according to reports,
Swearing he’ll somehow survive National Health care.

Boris doesn’t like being in bed when he’s out of sorts,
Whether he’s feeling up or better is not the public’s affair,
Boy, Bojo has been a bit of a wag when it comes to bed sports
But now is the time to change his wayward ways- and underwear.

 

©Obbverse

‘Blimey, that toff, that fella who’s just moved down into Ten Downing Street- Strange name, I fink it’s Boris- he’s gone and been taken into the local ‘ospital.’

Heavy On The Irony.

It’s developed into a sobering, if slightly sick story
For Boris, our weird wonderful and wiggy top Tory,
He, who’d dismissed this virus with a toss of his hair,
Waving away silly concerns and germs with a jocular air.

But now Boris cannot shake off this snotty cold,
Today Boris must simply shut up and do as he’s told,
‘Must it be that Hospital?’ he whines to his physician-
For Boris it’s going to be an awkward public admission.

His treatment causes him humiliation and distress,
A bad patient’s view of the inner workings of the NHS,
It’s most disconcerting to discover some common blight
Afflicts even those so blindingly bleedingly obviously Right.

 

©Obbverse