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.’
Shawly, just two minutes in
And there was no doubt-
England, for the win!
Barring a penalty shoot-out.
Would Football be coming home?
Not according to Gods plan-
Thy praises ring all 'round Rome,
They were all a'praying in the Vatican.
(All my commiserations to all in England. It ain't right, it ain't fair, but that's how the Rosaries roll. Looks like we all know who is Italy's Number One fan.)
Love In Vain- Or, Vein.
Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein
Watched her hubby from the shoreline,
Alas, for the wild and stormy poet of note
'Twas not the time to be paddling a leaky boat.
It devastated his distraught young wife
When Percy Shelley sunk and lost his life,
So before Mary cremated her sweetheart
She took hold, held close that cold cold part.
A little large for a silver locket,
A bit too big for a wee dress pocket,
And far too gross to hold in her hand-
Best placed underneath the nightstand?
She kept his heart in her bedside drawer,
Not for her brief grief, no, it remained raw,
She kept it locked inside a heart-shaped box
Amongst her dainty hankies, smalls and socks.
At first this act of sweet spousal devotion
Seemed an endearingly darkly Romantic notion,
Till for even the hanky-dabbing Widow Mary Shelley
Percy became less lingering memory, more simply smelly.
(I commented on a blog, and that comment twisted its way into this... odd offering.)
Ninety-nine- A Fair Old Innings.
For good old Phil it's the end of the line,
Departing life's game stuck on ninety-nine,
What a long and Commowealthy life it's been
Standing mostly quietly in the shadow of his Queen.
The Duke was at his best standing square-jawed,
Stoic, as Liz spoke and the folk listened in, awed,
On the other hand, when asked to share a thought
Her speech writers advised Phil to just keep it short.
He's stood by, if not silently, steadfast and loyally,
On the odd occasion, dropped himself in it royally,
Liz's Phil has been known for many an un-PC remark
But then the Prince has been 'round as long as the ark.
Leaving just shy of a 100 must cause him some regret,
There's a letter from the Palace he didn't quite get,
After seventy years of living a rich and Royal life
Phil won't get a 100 Club Card from the wife.
Phil said the odd gaffe, spoke his mind, but he was one of a kind.
Ruminations 'Pon Watching Monsieur R. Polanski's Moving Picture Based Upon Thomas Hardy's Heartbreaking Rendering Of The Lamentable Treatment Of The Much Put Upon 'Tess Of The d'Urbavilles.'
Caution Miss, if the rich young Master approaches
Offering up gilt plated hairpins or silv'ry broaches,
Don't shake his hand, shake firm your pretty head-
'Oh no sir, no engagement 'til our banns are read.'
Yon Master is a man who'd rather do wrong than right,
You want your wedding day, he wants his wedding night,
Pearl earrings, gold necklaces, baubles of every kind,
But handing a wedding band... somehow slips his mind.
Master may well say he will give you everything-
Give him not a thing till he promises a gold ring,
Tess, 'tis not for your sweet heart his hand reaches,
Push his hot hand away and hold on to your breeches.
(Yes, it's a light-hearted take on a grossly tragic tale. But tragedy, humour, two sides of the same face?)
(Some particular days you wake up feeling old. So, no funny business today. Sorry.)
Year Upon Year.
I still like to stroll 'neath the blue late summer sky
Though days run short and autumn's chill feels nigh,
Time was when I'd stride easy towards my leafy glade,
Nowadays a few more slow and stately steps are made.
This cool bower's perfectly placed for stop and rest,
Of late I feel this truth in my bones, and in my chest,
This stout tree I lean on now I've long thought as my own,
From young stripling and sapling, together we have grown.
As I look above those old signs are seen,
Subtle curls of gold amidst the sea of green,
Soon 'nough even summer's greenest leaf must fall,
Tomorrow, or two months hence, autumn reaps 'em all.
Don't get me wrong, I'm ageing happily every day I get,
Still, the years weigh and weary, we accumulate regret,
Every tree has twists and turns, Nature shapes and forms,
Each tree has boughs bent, bowed, scars from recent storms.
Will we weather another winter, to see in the spring?
Older, wisened to the fact the rose holds within a sting?
So take a little time to remember blooms cut cruelly short,
Long life holds more sorrow than we once young 'uns thought.
(On losing 0-3 at Selhurst Park to Burnley- bleeding Burnley!)
Same Old Selhurst Story.
Losing to lowly Burnley is hard enough to comprehend
But coughing up three lousy goals at home tends to send
A message to fans and foes alike; if it's goals you're seeking
Come to Selhurst Park, where the home side's goal keeps leaking.
Down, down the table the wounded eagles painfully descend,
Our front boys can't hope to score, our defenders won't defend,
Nowadays Roy's tried and true old school team tactics are creaking,
With the teams average age well over thirty, they're well past tweaking.
We're sinking towards the relegation end,
Waiting to be washed down, 'round the bend,
Roy stubbornly still says his old boys are just peaking
But what a load of old cobblers Hodgson keeps speaking!
Not you, not I dare say old Roy is not well intentioned
But half Roy's hobbled side also deserve to be pensioned,
I'm told I'm sounding ageist with my sage but savage critiquing-
The naked truth is this team of stumblebums is well past streaking.
Someday They'll Get Back Together.
Misses Ross, Wilson, Ballard and Birdsong?
How could a Motown fanboy not sing along?
Now a good half of those original Supremes
Have faded, like that young kid's old dreams.
Divine Diana Ross says she's she's sad and bereft,
Guess now there's two few Supreme voices left,
Better get the group together for a photo though-
And pronto, or Miss Ross might be singing solo.
Through all the petty squabbles, the hogging of the spotlight, the Diva-like acting the good ol’ Motown music endures.
All Said And Done.
Larry King has done with the chit-chat,
Larry's once lively repartee has fallen flat,
The celebrated interviewer of famous faces
Has packed in his colourful phrases and braces.
After fifty years of jive and live talking
Now his time has come to do the walking,
Please stand, be silent, such moments are rare,
He's said his piece, made his peace, he's off the air.
As the whole wide-eyed wigged-out world looks on
What thoughts idly flit through the 'mind' of Don?
Anarchy and sedition are the least of his concerns,
The Biggest Zero titters while Democracy burns.