Breaking news; It’s a dogs life being a news-hound.

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?

©Obbverse

Late breaking news- Larry King has broadcast his last.

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.

‘What, no last word?’

©Obbverse

Alan Jones and his multitude of hang-ups are going off the airwaves. Aussies, enjoy the quietude.

Press Zero.

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.

 

©Obbverse

Fox News: ‘Merican as apple sauce.

Right Again!

February: Just mild flu!

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?

 

©Obbverse

Democracy in traction.

Mid-term Report.

Well, the good people have spoken,
Unsurprisingly in a voice discordant and broken.

And what did the good people decide?
Damn near everyone voted, to widen the divide.

Some may feel their House is now in order
But the Senate’s reach is now even broader.

Anyone hoping for less hate and more reasoned debate
Now will find both sides reduced to a hopeless stalemate.
GREAT.

 

©Obbverse

The crown weighs heavy on the Head at times. These are right royal troubling times. So show a little sympathy, please.

Pardon The Subject.

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.)

 

©Obbverse

A book launch for Bob Woodward, the doyen of political writers, followed by a measured critique from Don and those- still- at the White House.

Fear And Loathing In Mar-a-Lago.

It’s been two years since the rise of President Trump,
Now he’s experiencing the ol’ half-way slump,
Now the (FAKE!) polls maliciously confirm
All ain’t rosy in the White House at mid-term.

Don was handed Bob Woodwards book,
He unwrapped it with hands that shook
With an endearingly childish sense of anticipation,
He then bent forward to read Bobs dedication…

Don read the fine print with twitching lip,
Words traced by the Presidents fingertip,
Soon he realised the hurtful things Bob said-
After sounding out the words in his head.

With the maturity for which Don is known
He reached for the comfort of his flipping phone,
And after a furious CAPITALISED tweet
Found Bobs home number and pressed ‘delete.’

Upon hearing Dons cry of wounded pride
Ivanka rushed in to the Presidents side,
Jarred stood by, a look of fear in his eye
As unPresidential curses and papers flew by.

Don railed at Bobs charges, completely unfounded,
In a frenzy Donalds desk was dementedly pounded-
We could’ve all been facing an incendiary September
Had the desk top launch code been easier to remember.

With half the White House staff facing eviction
Sarah Huckabee denounces Bobs book as fiction,
While Don goes through Bobs book page by page
Balling ’em in the waste basket, incandescent with rage.

All Don humbly asks of those who ‘advise’ him
Is for ’em to subserviently agree to his every whim,
Don does not take criticism (or Fear) well, I’m afraid-
It’s been his single failing since, oh, Fifth Grade.

©Obbverse

Rudy Giuliani, Trumps lawyer, says of his oh-so-innocent client; ‘I’m not going to be rushed into having him testify so he gets trapped into perjury.’ Tell it to the judge, Rudy.

True Story.

Mr Giuliani, please tell us more,
Since you’re well practiced at law
Do tell us, how in your learned view
The truth appears to look to Don and you?

In all your lawyerly twists and turns
Are there times the ol’ truth still burns?
When did that fiery-eyed highly principled youth
Find cold hard cash trumps poor unvarnished truth?

Rudy’s found its quite a trial to remember,
In all conscience, when last stirred an ember,
The truth (and Don’s fee) weigh heavy on his shoulder,
But it truly pays to say ‘truths in the eye of the beholder.’

Should some shady lady claim an affair,
Feelin’ free to tell a tale the Media will share,
A gold-digger who’d delight in having her say in Court,
Don don’t lie, awake at night, her silence can be bought.

Any criticism Don finds unfair, unjust and tough to take,
So he he stretches facts by saying their facts are fake,
Till it dawned on Don ‘why not lie without shame?’
To him, truth or lies, they’re all the same.

©Obbverse

 

The President might be thin-skinned but he’s a fighter. Now we sit back and see the shi… ahem, the fur fly.

Animus.

Omarosa was once Don’s dear and trusted adviser,
So what is it she’s done to make him despise her?
Well, since she’s been fired shes written a tell-all book,
A record of the colorful conversations in which he partook.

She says he used the nasty word, he denies all such dialogue
And now they’re rolling in the gutter fighting like cat and dog,
There sure ain’t no love lost between these old erstwhile friends
As manners go down the drain, into the swamp decorum descends.

Again the sly old dog digs into his trusty grab-bag of dirty tricks,
Don knows of old how to put the squeeze on low, lying chicks-
Yet his catastrophic brush with Bush on the bus gives him pause-
Best hope his big bad bark will cause her to withdraw her claws.

As Ivanka frenziedly re-edits every episode in ‘The Apprentice’
Shifty-eyed Ms Huckabee says Omarosa is non compos mentis,
But parroting weasel words leaves Huckabee unutterably sad,
She’s found it’s the old hound who is utterly barking mad.

 

©Obbverse

Strange how what is just and right evolves in the modern Trump world. I suppose it must be all a matter of perspective, or do we rely on blind faith? Sweet Jesus, who’s to know?

Above And Beyond.

Lawyer Mike Cohen was, confidentialy, not just a Donald fan,
When it came to private peccadilloes he was Dons Mr Fix-it Man,
But his quietly recording Don’s costly affairs wasn’t part of Don’s plan,
Poor Don, its hard to believe a lawyer  could be so Machiavellian?

To Donald’s defence the Righteous leap-
His learned counsel should his counsel keep.

His year-long tryst with Karen old Donald can richly afford-
Two hundred grand, another Playboy plaything cheaply scored,
On Don carried, the same year Melania had baby Barron on board,
There’s no more damning words of a cheating bastard on record!

Fox TV showers invective on Mike, ‘he’s a deceitful creep’
While Trump treads water in the swamp, so dark and deep.

But twenty years ago you should’ve heard their moralistic mewling
When slick Willy left Monica high and dry by saying they weren’t fooling,
While the twists and turns of Billy-goats oral gymnastics were unspooling;
Funny how now fiery talk of a flesh new Hell for adulterers is cooling?

Now for the Right God fearin’ folk, talk is cheap,
About today’s gross infidelities, not one damn peep.

 

©Obbverse