Screen All Calls, Neil.
The fine folk of Teviton and Hoviton, down in Devon
Thought they lived in a slice of pure Southern heaven,
A quiet place where the salt of the earth simply dwell-
Now Neil Parish has blown the sweet illusion all to Hell.
For twelve years he'd toiled in the House to little regard,
A hack back bencher doing House work but doin' it hard,
Few call on him, rare are the times Neil's moved to stand,
He's usually left to ruminate on his phone, rapt in his hand.
He was found out in the House of Commons, watching porn,
Not alone, in the Roxy, in the dark with a box of hot popcorn?
Why, once again we see another Tory sat sad and contrite,
Offering up the best rushed apology he had time to write,
He knows he must live with this act for the rest of his life...
Which mightn't be long, once he's in the grip of his wife.
Once hubby is resigned and restrained within her four walls
Wifey might whip him a flip-top so he can answer his calls,
For hubby now a no-frills no-thrills Nokia surely suffices;
Not-so-smart Neil cannot be left to his phone (de)vices.
Come the Election, if Boris's Party Time culminates in a rout
Will House breeches help to get Blue members tossed out?
Boris knows he has to admit to his mistake,
Never been a thing he felt obligated to make,
But given there's principles a PM's future at stake
He'll make his sad and sorry apology, for pity's sake.
Though well practiced, Bo knows sincerity's hard to fake.
Oh, Boris Johnson, why don't you just resign?
Your blithe denials about 'a quick birthday wine'
Have resulted in the cops slapping you with a fine-
For you breaking your own rules, you pompous swine.
Your gullible public can't swallow that fatuous lie line.
See Boris front up and 'fess up to a minor mistake,
(Though Bo believes rules are made for him to break)
As a clear and transparent apology his is muddily opaque,
A strained 'sorry' comes as hard for him to say as us to take.
This steamin' hot mess Bo aims to pile on us is no birthday cake.
Oh, Bonehead Johnson, you know it is just to resign,
Surely, even you must see your star has lost its shine?
Boris, dare you consider- God forbid- you are not divine?
There's talk of you and coups coming down the grapevine.
So go Bo- your Party contains more pricks than a porcupine.
‘Oi, polloi!- Boris Johnson, at your bumbling humble service.’
(Free verse- not my fave- required for Chel Owens Terrible Poetry Contest: 'Bad Driving.')
Poor Parking Parable.
What a dazzlingly bright sizzler of a triple digit day
It was down at the Crucible Mall
What a joy it was to be beneath
Cloudless azure skies
In a Midnight Blue Horizon with no
And nary a park to be found within spitting
Distance of the Malls shady welcoming walls
Thanks to one selfish bast- parker
Who had left two half spaces on either side
Of the fat-wheeled Ford F150 parked athwart the middle line
Of the only two miserably designated
Disabled car parks
Lolling in his idling 150 sat
A fat-as slack-faced cowboy
Hairy mitt draped on the wheel
Arctic cold cab wreathed in vape smoke
He paused but for a second
To chug down his sixth Bud
Before leaping agilely and
Lightly for such a heavy gutted hombre-
Onto the asphalt
And strode back into the Booze Barn
For 'nother nourishing six-pack
No Disabled card on view
Not hardly right
After parking way out back in the back of beyond
Out in the furthest and farthest
Rarely traversed outer reaches of the
Chokka packed Car park
Far from the Mall and the madding crowd
Sweated my way across
The shimmering tacky tarmac
Trekking towards the far off
Sliding-doored cold comfort of
My journey through Hades proved to be well worth it though!
So gratifying it was to see our invalid invalid
Looking fair fit to be tied
Getting roughly cuffed and arrested by someone
Healthily buffed in a well-stuffed XL black uniform
As a bonus
Our cow-pokes big-as truck getting all set
To get towed
I joined in the surrounding crowd
Watching the one-sided spectacle
Easing in beside
A finely groomed and elegantly attired
'Another ass who believes it's his right to
Use up not just one
but two Disabled parks' he offered
Eyes hard as tempered steel
'Tis rare to see such justice playing out before our eyes'
I croaked agreeably in my parched cracked voice
Seems all about us most folks agreed
And as the baddest example
Of good driving I'd seen in quite a while
Had his ass hauled
Into the back seat
Of his personally designated Cruiser
Hands behind his back
Everyone enthusiastically yet oddly waved him ta-ta's
All with both hands
But sans fingers
'Cept for middle digits
I bade the elderly gent a hearty good day
He went gladly off on his merry way
His wheelchairs wheel
Making one hell of a deep impression
Along the highly polished long long
Which made for quite the racket too
But everyone in the vicinity
Who should have heard this
Had to have been deaf-finately Disabled
If not deaf
‘But Ocifer, I’m gonna light out soon as I’d loaded up more suds.’
Appetite For Destruction.
President Vlad Putin went off on a Righteous war
Like many a mad Right dictator has done before,
And though 44 million Ukrainians maligned him
Millions more Russians rallied right behind him.
Most know Vlad's always had a long-term agenda;
If he had a heart, 'twas stone, not warm and tender,
When the Iron Curtain fell, up sprung a warmonger,
In Vlad's eye-spy eyes still burns a powerful hunger.
But for sad Vlad his war games gone wrong, not right,
In Old Petrograd Western sanctions have begun to bite,
If the proletariat can't fill up on Pepsi, Coke 'n' Big Macs
Someone might be tempted to take out the old battle axe.
'See ya later, dictator.'
(Starbucks are bailing out of Russia too, but they can have ’em; who needs the dregs?)
Birthday Bash For Boris.
(A tale of an honest work place mistake-
Staying a brilliant PM is no piece of cake.)
Poor put-upon Boris, what a pickle he's now in,
Sweet wifey Carrie threw a birthday bash for him,
Just one teensy rum cake and ten jeroboams of gin,
Pity, coz cause for further celebration is growing slim.
Hateful face masks came off for a while-
Better to see Boris's boozy grateful smile .
Number 10's gained a reputation as a party address,
A place of broken bubbles, then long lingering regrets,
It's the latest party Bo will have left in a Right old mess,
Boris, your partying's over, here comes the cold sweats.
BoJo swears blue it was alllll work related-
Oh, we'll see, once Sue Gray has investigated.
Now, since some party pooper has called the Old Bill* in
Will Bo blow hard as usual, or lie low and shut his cakehole?
Everyone but Mr Magoo* can see BoJo's an unmasked villain-
A crim can't be in charge of number 10 or stay on the electoral roll.
*Old Bill; Brit slang for the police, the plod, the cops and rozzers.
**AKA Jacob Rees-Mogg; big fawning follower and fascist fan of Boris.
Back story: Tory party staffers were invited to an 'after work' bring-your-own-booze garden party at Number Ten Downing Street. 'Come and enjoy a convivial drinkie-poo or two in the close company of your kind of people whilst the hoi poloi are lawfully obliged to stay locked down in their common little homes.'
Pity Party/'Faux Sorry.'
Boris's party invitation is clandestinely extended,
To us, his 'special' friends, behind Number 10's closed door,
There we can mingle, unmasked as God Boris intended,
Because we're Upper Class, Eton, drinking, above the law.
Getting The Green Back.
Who recalls those (g)olden days when a mayor's word
Meant a promise given by His Worship would be kept?
Nowadays his Council consider this quaintly absurd,
As the old Burghers say, a silly and antiquated concept.
Back then when hereabouts was more village than town
The mayor and hired surveyor set out in horse and trap,
When well past the black stump* the two stepped down
And in a sun-dappled glade they surveyed the map...
The mayor could see a big future for his hamlet ahead,
The surveyor was there to draw his mark in the sand,
A green belt to encircle the soon-to-be-a-city's spread-
Long after the mayor had fallen these trees would stand.
But the young town came on in leaps and bounds,
Town houses swiftly replacing rural fields and streams,
Soon the rude city butted up against long sacred grounds,
Such an impediment to investors get-rich-quick schemes!
Builders gazed enviously upon the old swathe of green
But the latest mayor recalled promises he'd sworn to keep,
Told the investors this oasis must stay as it had always been-
Or, he might change his mind- but change don't come cheap.
Dis Honor and his noble Council convened in the Town Hall;
Was any behind-closed-doors decision ever so open and shut?
No mention of conservation blighted their conversation at all,
All voted 'Aye' to clear that wilderness, each took a hefty cut.
These days no mayor can afford to hold back time and tide,
Hereabouts into soulless assholes pockets cash readily flows,
and now brick-a-crap boxes litter the once quiet countryside,
On once verdant glades only the grey concrete jungle grows.
* The back of beyond, off in the wilderness, untouched by civilisation.
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.’
Even here, in our slow somnolent neck of the woods
We've our fair share of the sad, bad and no-goods,
We've the odd homegrown halfwit, don't get me wrong
But we gain a few more morons as Summer rolls along.
Here, we welcome return tourists with open arms,
Especially those who so freely spread their alms,
But we would have trespassed one unwelcome face
If the asshat hadn't bought ol' Kooky Arkham's place.
There's this Slick Dick dude who comes here on vacation
And he's the cause of much local aggravation,
He sees himself as a hard riding Harley outlaw,
Dragging his Softail* through town at full bore.
No-one can accuse him of good taste or restraint-
He's got a purple helmet to match his Hogs paint,
Gold ring glittering on his tin ear
Like some cheap Jack Sparrow buccaneer,
He's got the black jacket, got the H-D bandana,
He's definitely got the pain-in-the-ass manner.
Now, this clown with the customised Harley-
I dunno his name, let's call him, umm, Charley?
Who knows his real name but that seems to fit-
And Chuck seems a nicer moniker than Fuck Half Wit.
Chuck has had a sound system built into the bike,
Pounding out his Queen, Crüe, Kiss and the like,
Can't he cut short his Journey, and why the Rush?
We'd rather hear some Johnny Cash or a little hush.
Every Saturday morn Chuck's up come 7 o'clock,
Starts up his Harley, cranks up his Classic Rock,
Through town and country rolls our rowdy rover,
Racket raising the town dead, and those hungover.
Why, now when the locals step off Main Street
Into the Tavern where the all-year residents meet
For a quiet convivial craft beer-
Brewed, bottled and consumed here-
Must the small-town small talk be torn asunder
By unwelcome and unsilenced V-twin thunder?
In our slow moving town we like to stop and talk,
Shoot the shit Chat with friends on the sidewalk
Without the pavement 'neath your feet thrumming,
Wondering if his Hog or His Rapture's a'coming?
He's driving our Amish buggy drivers to drink,
Slows down to give the Amish girls a leery wink,
He's dropped in butt once to this watering hole,
Ordering a Bud Lite proved he's a asshole lost soul.
One thing we like about our fair weather friend
Is he has no reason to stay past the seasons end,
We counted down the days as Autumn neared,
Few here will miss him when he's disappeared.
We all stood 'round the Tavern of the Town
On the first day of Fall, as the rain fall down,
And all gathered raised one Helluva cheer
Helen Keller would've been happy to hear,
As down rain-soaked Main Street Chuck rode...
We were all ecstatic to see Slick hit the road.
* Yet another oddly named Harley Davidson. (Why they don't call one the Outmoded Anachronistic Vintage Costoomuch Custom Special I do not know. Too much truth in advertising? )
‘Better drink that Bud and run, Dude.’
(Based on a recent quiet conversation with my brother, resident of a nice easy-going rural picture postcard town, about the tribulations of dealing with the summer people. Sorry, one irksome one.)
In passing, on my way to the tennis court
'I'll quickly pop into the shop,' so I thought,
I slid smoothly into Kroger's parking lot
Not knowing I'd be dealt a passing shot.
There they were, cluttering up Kroger's entrance aisle,
Proud Mom with stopped shopping cart and fixed smile,
There she was, a cute munchkin with her pretty dolly
Mimicking Mommy with her lilliputian shopping trolley.
I politely asked Mom if she might move it to let me pass,
I could've- should've- just told her to move her ass,
But I was raised by my mother to be nice and kind
And not to say what was foremost in my mind.
She clutched her trolly, a hard look in her eye
And I knew this madam wouldn't let this go by,
Grimly she pushed the trolly challengingly in my path-
Seems I'd provoked this Mother of all Karen's wrath.
Behind me my following shoppers grew pushy, restive,
It clearly wasn't me that said something suggestive,
But in a flash her eyes and trolly met mine
And it was she, not I who crossed the line.
It was a classic case of push cart goes to shove
But petty-minded petulance I can rise above,
So I asked her, once more, I asked her pretty please
If she might allow me free access to the deep freeze?
She told me to move my basket- or so I thought she said,
As it transpired she'd call me a by-product of the unwed,
That's a downright dirty lie, I know this for sure,
Though Ma says I was four months premature.
Some spoilt sweet kids are just hard to get through to
But for this progeny it was 'see Mommy do, kiddy do,'
And this wee precious poppet, bless her heart
Tried to smash my ankle with her kiddy cart.
I looked down, pained, at the little moppet
Awaiting Mommy to say 'Sweetie, stop it,'
But Treasure looked neither tearful or fearful
And Mommy Dearest gave me a right earful.
I did my best to quietly ride out the damned pain
But then the wee Kikamora rammed me again!
I'd love to say I civilly held my tongue, but gosh, by golly
Everyone behind me loudly cheered my serve and volley.