Won't Go Quietly.
Don's taking his well-worn case to court again-
He simply wants to give his grievances full rein,
He's gonna sue Google, Twitter and Facebook,
A Great voice rendered mute we can't overlook.
He wants his rights to his free speech protected,
He wants his lines of communication reconnected,
For 'them' to hush his mouth sounds grossly unfair,
The fact his every word's a lie is neither here nor there.
It deeply pains him that he is so conspired against,
For his hurt feelings he must be heavily recompensed,
To be cut off from his huge audience leaves him cut up,
And the last Great President can't bear to be shut up.
Donald loudly champions his idea of hate free speech,
But others he know might also feel free to over-reach,
As far as loose talk from ex-lawyers and business friends?
Right there's where Don's talk on free speech promptly ends.
Letters To The Discredited.
Dear Esteemed Editor:
I'll still enjoy perusing your paper most every day,
I'll still have your old paper delivered in the old way,
I amble down the long driveway, and nine times out of ten
There I'll see todays paper- unless it landed next door again.
Or flung up in the beech tree, or deep in the prickly hedge,
On a chilly winters day his lousy arm puts my teeth on edge,
Still, your paperboy does deliver me bad news, rain snow or hail;
So I won't add a note of complaint to the cheque, that's 'in the mail.'
No, Dear Editor, believe me I'm not one to bitchily gripe,
I'm not one to write in complaint (nor two-fingerdly type)
But today, Dear Editor, your weird way with words enrages-
At least your imbroglio looks most at home in the funny pages.
I rarely miss attempting your ten question word quiz,
But this day, my Dear Editor, my question for you is;
How come there are ten answers but only nine queries?
I've counted, all fingers and thumbs and I'm out of theories.
Me answering ten questions right is too much of an ask!
But keeping it one question short doesn't simplify my task,
So, in the future, Dear Editor, heed your readers suggestions,
If you say you have all the answers, don't forget the questions.
Yours ruefully, SubScriber.
(Another true and unfaked story. It's a sad and puzzling day when the press is short on or lost for words. Someone oughta get their shit quiz together!)
(A quick snide aside following the form of yesterday’s few lines.)
Two Deserving.
Dom and BoJo have lost the plot,
That terrible two make one sorry lot,
The old iron-clad brotherly bond is shot,
That once creepily friendship, now forgot,
Still mutually respectful- most definitely not!
Now they wouldn't share the same piss pot.
Another few lines- these two deserve a half-decent hearing.
Two Sad.
Dominic and BoJo both realise
Their relationship has hit its demise,
Farewell twisted bonds, Old School ties-
Whatever Dominic accuses, Boris denies,
But who could you trust to believe whose lies?
This couldn't happen to two déclassé-er guys.
Groundhog Day Again.
'Good morning, Merrilee, what's happening in the news today,
What's trending, pray tell, what's going down in the greater USA?'
'Morning Mitch, well, it's much like yesterday's news, sorry to say,
Trials, tribulations, protests- oh, 'nother mass shooting by the way.'
'Oh Merrilee, this is a tragedy, so soon after yesterday's report?
It gives me pause to think how quick our lives can be cut short,
So let me take a moment to send out heartfelt prayers of support;
OK, moving along Merrilee- hey, what's new in weather and sport?'
(Yet another dark rather than light flippant offering. Sorry, but now it's no fun to wake up of a morning and start ticking off the latest mass shooting numbers- Indianapolis Fedex, April 15, Detroit, April 16, Columbus and La Place, April 17, Kenosha and Shreveport , April 18- Since when did mass shootings become an everyday occurrence? The numbers are all becoming quite mind numbing, aren't they?)
Poisoned Pen.
I started my days as a news reporter
Back in the days a paper cost a quarter,
Rarely did I step up onto the front page
But I had a fair trot in the pre-digital age.
I recall the first day I started my paper run,
Up bright and early with 'The Morning Sun,'
But I rose too fast, too high, pushed too far...
Seeing out my days at the fading 'Evening Star.'
But the sorry day that ended with my fall,
It's a sad story I'm not happy to recall,
The tale beginning with 'writers block,'
Ending with my resigned John Hancock.
Every wordsmith asks 'why oh why
Sometimes the words within up and die?'
Sometimes not 'coz the mind's crapped out,
Sometimes the lousy pen's just tapped out.
How can a poor reporter report
When ink and inspiration run short?
How can you stick your account in when
You're stuck with a washed-up fountain pen?
My cheap nasty pen, wot a waste of cash,
Now all it writes is lots of dots... then... dash-
While the words are dancin' in my head
It's lose the pen and get out the lead.
But a pencil is best 2B left for school,
Shorthand soon makes of it a blunt tool,
Plus a pencil has a built-in handicap,
When writing under pressure- SNAP!
So up my shitey pen I did take,
Gripped tight, gave it a mighty shake,
Another black mark for the newsman-
Tossed the bleeding thing in the shit trash can.
From its wretched twisted stuck-up tip
Black As Midnight ink began to darkly drip,
There it lay, its Guaranteed word broken,
A final message can take its time to soak in.
This pen then proved it hadn't dried out,
Silly me- I never clicked it hadn't died out,
My long-time pen-friend I treated so cruel?
Its lifesblood began to viscously pool.
But my fine story I would complete,
This Fleet Street journo won't be beat,
I tentatively asked my Boss for her pen to loan,
No mistaking 'no' when the middle finger's shown.
So I broke the Days story, thanks to a crayon,
Twilight came, I blinked, and the day's gone,
I'd written off the entire day!
Time to clean up, up and away.
My desk, in its usual state of disgrace-
And my Boss demands a pristine workplace,
When it comes to dealing with the crap trash
My method is a sweeping slap-dash.
I upraised the document recycling lid,
Of my balled-up confusions soon be rid;
One problem with the rubbish I write
Is I jam in all I can, bad, good and tight.
Gravity wouldn't empty this rubbish bin
And so, I put my left hand in,
I pulled my write hand out
And waved it drippily all about.
What I felt was more than an inkling,
In the bottom, more than a sprinkling,
I had a bad feeling, down to my fingertips,
And a bad banned word sprung from my lips.
Just as the Boss entered, her face went white-
I stood guiltily, hands up, black as pitchest night,
Potty mouth, filthy hands, dirtier than Monty Burns;
And here is where the sad story sinisterly turns...
She, the prissy mistress of clean and tidy
Told me to clean out my desk by Friday,
So I demanded to see the Department Head-
We'd see to whom the riot act would be read!
The rumours I'd so cavalierly dismissed-
That red hot tip about the Boss's secret tryst-
That cock-a-doodle tale came home to roost-
I leapt to the conclusion like I'd been goosed.
When your Boss's Boss has a bossy mistress
And she wears both the pants and the dress
How did this No-Shit Sherlock fail to understand
In this curly situation she held the whip hand?
Now she demanded a letter saying I'd resigned-
I tossed it off, left on her desk, but left it unsigned,
As I raised my pen, something penned-up released-
A red mist exploded as my high circulation increased.
Her desk was so scrupulously clean it was scary-
But then again, she dumped it all on her secretary,
I was young, impulsive, angry and foolish, I'll admit it-
I left her anally-retentive room like a hurricane had hit it.
I reported down town, showed the cops my guilty face-
I should've just signed off and not trashed the place,
I'd left a trail of destruction, burnt all my bridges,
A black trail awash with all my whorls and ridges.
Thats where my career started to run downhill,
Once blistering exposes- trotted out, run of the mill,
My days as a serious Sun scribe went down the tubes
When my page 3 story was covered by a pair of boobs.
Now my short sentence has finished long since,
For twenty years I've kept clean(ish) fingerprints,
Still I'm known as a Criminally Damaged Offender...
And I coulda shoulda been a Nobel Prize contender.
I've worked every dirty rag, at Times, in the Big Smoke,
I'm Ex-Press, past Post, your Standard journalistic joke,
I've hacked at the News Of The World, for what it's worth,
That mob, that job lot- I've toiled for the scum of the earth!
I've written reams of rubbish I'm not proud of
For fu- folk I never dreamed I'd be in a crowd of,
I've had a dab hand in fiction passed off as fact,
But today I've resigned again rather than be sacked.
The bad news was- our little paper has been sold-
My new manager- that stone cold fox bitch of old,
I already knew 'to know her is to loathe her,'
But the company she keeps is even lower.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
So now I'm working for peanuts, for a free giveaway,
Honestly, I put in a big days work for a wee day's pay,
But it is reward enough to be just a poor wordsmith
If the face I see in the morning mirror I can work with.
My past Press Associations still sadly lingers,
People still point at me with shaking fingers,
Asking me if it's true, just what kind of twisted views
Do I hold to be too damn good to report for Fox News?
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.
A word on Alan, he’s due his first and last post,
It’s a kind of a eulogy to a long-winded talk-back host,
It’s finally time to hang up, Alan Jones,
The man who had the last word on a million phones.
He’s a hard man, holding riotous views on race,
Not scared of shovin’ women back in their place.
So wave goodbye, Mister Always Right,
The kind of bloke who just keeps holdin’ on to every slight,
Say bye-bye, biggest mouth in the ol’ Dominion,
Cheerio, best Aussie broadcaster… in his humble opinion.
Ain’t nothing more the old football coach enjoys
Than a boozy chin-wag with those good ol’ boys.
An Aussie prattler the Left rightly loathed and feared
But with an ego needing to be loved and revered,
A mean-minded misogynist whatever way he tried to spin it, Finally, the mouthy shock jock’s put a sock in it.
I’m left in absolute awe at Fox”s GreaT news.
I can’t dispute their pure unprejudiced views,
See my jaw hanging ajar, see my bugging eyes
As Fox friendlily sets dumb guys like me wise?
March: Mild unease grew.
Seems somehow Donald was in control all along!
Trust Fox to finagle a done right from a Don wrong,
Even as Hannity looks down on a hushed New York
That Tucker won’t shut down Don’s sick crazy talk.
April Fools Day: Sad but true.
Still they’ll hail the Chief’s every off-the-cuff decision,
Smiling benignly, knowing the viral shit-show’s arriven, Still the Fox hosts loyally proclaim Don cannot be faulted!
With the stable door still ajar and the pale horse long bolted?
After a fresh new dawn, clear and bright
Dark times have come for the kingdoms Lord,
Another wrong to right, another obituary to write
When he who wields the pen yields to the sword.
(I try to leaven these posts with a bit of humor. I can’t see much to smile about on some of the days these day though.)
