Another sad tale from a long-faced long time Crystal Palace follower.

Time Bomb. 
(Chelsea steal the win, last minute, 19/2/22.)

Once again this long-suffering Crystal Palace fan
Marvels at how well his players play to Pat's* plan,
Fully focused on keeping the opposition scoreless,
So many times Palace's defence is so close to flawless.

The times I've watched as injury time runs deep-
Then's when our blinking back line goes to sleep,
And in one single moment of slack-jawed yawning
We're back rueing their mistake on Sunday morning.

The way Palace let themselves get robbed is a crime!
Must we relearn our lesson, time after time after time?
Wouldn't it be wonderful, just once, for us to scare late?
Wouldn't it be great to see Patrick Vieira finally celebrate?

Wouldn't it be some turn up if Palace scored last at last?
Wouldn't it be terrific to not leave Selhurst** downcast?
One day the scoreboard will say (I pray with heart and soul)
A Palace player scored the late winner- and not an own goal.

*Patrick Vieira- Managing brilliantly for eighty-nine minutes every game.
**Selhurst Park- Palace's home ground and field of broken last minute dreams.

‘Last minute panic at the dismal Palace again!’

©Obbverse.

Sadly, Meatloaf is done. He’s off to another, who knows, better place?

Last At Bat.

The Bat out of Hell man bids us 'goodnight,'
It's time for that last final flight,
So set the Bat signal and the Radar transponder
And fly off into the wild black yonder.

(A slightly tongue in cheek obit. I'm sure Mr Marvin Aday wouldn't mind.)

'OK, now: Do I fly up- or down? The Hell if I know.'

©Obbverse.

Mike Nesmith leaves this world, and Saturday mornings will never quite be the same.

Last Hominoid Standing.

After the Beatles became a bona fide box office draw
Some savvy money men manufactured Mop-Tops, Mark 2,
Bob'n' Bert thought up the copycat Beatles, the Pre fab Four,
For Mr Rafelson and Mr Scneider, money see, Monkee do.

But their TV show band weren't expected to actually play,
Davey, Micky, Pete and Mike only had to lip-sync and mime,
They were supposed to act the part and pick up their pay,
But the play-actors playing improved out of sight, over time.

Fifty years of syndicated Monkeeing, on endless repeat
Ensures those four fabricated Sixties kids live on, in rerun,
But sadly, in reality, now Nesmith has rejoined Davey and Pete
It's either Micky as a solo act, or this Monkees troop is done. 

Farewell, Mike Nesmith, and RIP; it’s a life well-lived when you can make generations of surly sixteen year olds smile sillily for half an hour.

©Obbverse.

Let’s celebrate 100 years since the end of a Great War. Happy anniversary?

One Great War After Another.

That first Great War lasted four long years
But twenty years on and we were back for more,
After six endless years and countless tears
We found, again, no-one wins any bloody war.

Can we, at long last
Learn from the mistakes of the past?
Will our idiotic leaders call to arms
Lose its patriotic charms?

Will we ever see our way
To not see our soldiers fade away?
Can we have a lasting peace?
Will wonders never cease?

Will Einstein be proved right?* 
Will we turn toward the so-bright light?
Will we be bathed in momentary glory
Before the world becomes our Purgatory?

The Third Great War should be brutally short-
Then eons of peace on earth, awash with flash-fried bones,
Till when we evolve enough for war to be fought
The inhumanity can continue with sticks and stones.

* Albie said (sic) 'Dunno what weapons World War Three will use, but for World War Four, they'll have to turn their hands to sticks and stones.' Cheery thought, is it not?

‘Not a grey cloud in the sky here at Camp Combustable, Nevada.’

©Obbverse.

Reflecting back on that first true love; sweet moments to remember.

Ours To Lose.

It was at a Saturday night dance
I shyly made my hopeful advance,
She gave me an appraising glance...

A test, amazingly, I passed.

She noted my clumsy tread,
My cheeks flushed hot and red,
By dances end 'twas she who led,

I, left following, eyes downcast.

This lass had lightening feet,
Her every fleet move I'd repeat,
Close, but just behind half a beat.

I'm no expert, but at least an enthusiast.

Panting towards the punch bowl
This sweaty parched dry-mouthed soul
Suggested a cool libation and a quiet stroll?

'Yes' she said 'but we'll go with a blast.'

With a wicked grin
To our punch she slipped in
A fifth of five star Firewater gin.

Tonight we'd be getting rat-assed!

I was barely a boy of sixteen,
I was naive, gauche and green,
But still she seemed pretty keen.

Could- would- I lose my inhibitions at last?

Her urgent kisses tasted so Frenchly sweet,
We pawed our way down the dark street
Looking for some place to be indiscrete.

How I embraced being sexually harassed! 

In a patch of long grass we lay,
And, despite my fumbling foreplay
She soon laid me back and had her way.

And my innocence lay in the past.

So in the matter of a moment
What I'd lost left me happily spent,
My seductress, alas, left pleasure bent,

So sad I'd dishonoured myself so fast.

‘Gimme five minutes or so and we’ll be all good to go.’

(Not a true story. Honest! This story was relayed to me by a good friend…)

©Obbverse.

Alabama had more deaths than births of late; Why, we wonder?

And Todays Darwin Awards...

See, down South we don't need no damned inoculation
Even if its approved by the Food 'n' Drug Administration,
There's Lord knows what in that mixed-up Devils brew
And our Pastor sez th' Covid's just some jumped-up 'flu.

Our quiet Southern backwa- backwoods 'burg ain't the place
For out-of-towners to drop in masked and not show their face,
Folks don't need to wear no mask in our free and open streets,
(Only time we hide our face here is 'neath the holey white sheets.)

Here we don't need or heed no Snowflake driven mandate
Tellin' us where, when 'n' with who we can freely congregate,
To Fauci's foolish talk of catching Covid we remain immune,
And, like Don, we truly do believe 'twill all blow over soon.

We won't be putting no contaminants in our red-blooded veins,
Least not while a drop of pure pig-headed Rebel blood remains,
If the good Lawd wants to take me to Glory, to sit by His hand
I'll go unvaccinated, knowing my demise is what God planned.

                        - - -  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Well, two weeks have gone since I wrote the note above...
I fear I might've been premature 'bout Gods eternal love...
It was at choir practice I remember I started to feel poorly,
But under Gods roof nothing ill could touch me, surely?

I drove home, the Pastors blessings ringing in my ears
With his sincere hopes my snotty head cold quickly clears...
I took a shot of Mucinex, a slug of bourbon and hit the sack,
Took to my bed, began to hack, closed my eyes and lay back. 

I recall waking up once to see all my kin gathered 'round,
Din't need no no-show Pastor to tell me I wuz Glory bound.  
Looks like I up and died, and now I'm stood on Cloud Nine
Waiting to see Saint Pete, I'm at the end of a long long line.

Seems there's many in this queue who shared my view,
Like me they din't really expect to get called-yet- by You,
It seems a lot up ahead who see Saint Pete get short shrift,
Seems if ya ain't had a jab that Saint gets almighty miffed.

Seems Gods place for us is in some lockdown quarantine!
Seems God expected us to accept and inject that vaccine!
Seems God Hisself sez simply denyin' pure scientific evidence
Is a Hell of a way of not using plain God given common sense. 

 

'Dang, seems they was right to keep harping on and on.'

©Obbverse.

September, early spring, a time of hope and renewal? Not on the nineteenth it ain’t.

Date Stamped.

Born before me,
Gone way before,
I won't ever see 
His like no more.

That remains crystal clear.

Born this day
Many moons ago,
It hurt to say
Goodbye too soon, bro.

Dry up, stupid tear.

So this September 
We're here again,
To stand and remember.
'Time Heals All Pain?' 

Nope; not this year.

  Learn it fast, son- life ain't fair.

(No attempts to force humour today. Tomorrow’s another bright new day, and I’m sure the sun will rise as per usual and cheer us all up. Soon enough.)

©Obbverse.

Charlie Watts leaves the band permanently. No one will or could replace him though.

In The Shadows.

Sad to say, but face it, Charlie Watts was an ugly sod,
He possessed not the chiseled features of some Greek God,
Charlies darling mug was pasty, pale and plain unbecoming,
But never overlook the flair, the rare beauty in his drumming.

The steady rock, in so many ways. RIP Charlie.

©Obbverse.

Don Everly packs away the guitar for the last time. Bye Bye Don, it was a pleasure to hear both you and your brother.

Split Harmonies.

I never thought I would ever hear the end of Phil and Don,
But now Don's caught up to brother Phil and he too has gone,
Once the Everly's high heavenly harmonies blended like no other,
So why, down here on earth, could neither bear the sight of the brother?


(A group can break up but it's tough when you and your brother can't stand one another any more. No big happy harmonious family gatherings for years and years.)

More mutual loathing than musical differences?

©Obbverse.

Unclassified notes from an Oval Office; The Ford, Dearborn office, not the Pennsylvania Avenue one.

(Dark humour, a mild warning.)

The Flawed Concept.

Mr Ford viewed the tiny cars flooding in with fear,
Gutting sales of the gas-guzzlers Henry held so dear,
So into the new geeko-friendly no-smoking atmosphere
Henry trotted out his Pinto, with its pertly kicked-up rear,
So cheeky, chic and cheerful- and so cheap to engineer.

His Pinto putting dents in imports sales elicited a grin,
But making a profit on compacts means making 'em thin,
So, skinnier welds here, there, replace heavy steel with tin;
Ford's salesmen lightly told customers 'take 'er out for a spin,'
Is emphasising gas mileage over driver safety such a sin?

In harness with rising gas prices, sales of the sippy Pinto rose,
In his boardroom see, along with his profits, how his smile grows?
Until a rash of memos brought about a wrinkling of Henry's nose;
It's safe to say a Pinto's economy is great, as far as gas milage goes
But in a tail-ender one is not safe, as any crash dummy knows.

Was it a question of saving lives or saving on the cash?
Placing a gas tank waaay back was more dumb than rash,
The Pinto was a pain in the ass when in a nose-to-tail smash;
Percolating Pintos were hotly looked at by Police, Fire and Crash-
Hank's cheap-ass petty penny ante profits tanked, and in a flash.

(Mockery aside, a case of money over humanity. Apparently, for the sake of a few nickels and dimes per vehicle in producing these bombs cars Ford could have redesigned and alleviated the problem. Corporate cost-cutting at its best/worst. Ford lost a court case and paid through the nose.)

‘For Sale, Ford Pinto, cool retro classic, original Fire Engine Red paint.’

©Obbverse