Lawyers Never Lack In Appeal.
Derek Chauvin's poor loser of a lawyer is now saying
Many more legal loopholes avenues are worth persuing,
This lifetime sentence is worth spending time on delaying-
(The tricky part remains that nine minutes of painful viewing.)
Monetarily it might cost him- a lot,
And it's bound to take mighty long,
But Derek's lawyer's in a tight spot
So count him in to right your wrong!
The real appeal of our untimely appeal is it will take a pile while,
Buying time to blame Floyd's death on 'unhappy happenstance?'
'So we, Derek's defence, demand another long drawn-out trial!'
(Say Counsellor, when will George Floyd get a second chance?)
Dominic Cummings vicious nasty attack
Must trigger a quick Johnson come-back,
When two old besties start talking smack,
Once cosy Old Boy alliances begin to crack
Someone in Tory-Town is way out of whack.
C'mon, seriously old chaps- pot, kettle, black?
Rich Man, Ponzi Man, Bernie Madoff, Thief.
Bernie Madoff, that ball of slime
Has done spending time in jail,
He's hardly started serving his time
For fraud on a madly massive scale.
But Bernie's sentence is at expiration.
He ripped people off for his own ends,
He left a trail of Madoff bad debts behind,
He bilked clients and milked dear friends,
Every one a poor rube to be robbed blind.
So much for his trustworthy reputation.
He was sentenced to three lifetimes in clink,
Judged deserving of serving 150 years,
Time enough to take stock, stop and think...
What fresh Hell awaits as Eternity nears?
It's time for a soul-searching conversation.
Alas, poor Bernie, did he did try to cut a deal?
Offer Satan up his soul, or a majority share?
But in certain cases that offer holds no appeal,
A peep into some hearts shows... nothing there.
Any ex-client knows that's no Revelation.
As Bernie breathes his last in his lonely cell
Does he pray St. Pete swallows his sob story?
The ol' silver tongued devil tells a tale so well;
Or will Bernie be the richest soul in Purgatory?
So ends Bernie's short incarceration.
Bernie lived the rich Ponzi scheme dream
Now life in a pokey cell is a poor way to live,
The debt he owes he knows he'll never redeem,
What a pity bankrupt Bernie had only life to give.
It's back to the bottom for Bernie if you're into reincarnation.
And Jolly Good Company...
Imagine If I could stand and face you instead of using Zoom?
Imagine if we could all be close together in the one room?
Ever since the sad business of the emergence of Covid-19
We've had no choice but do the business via video screen.
As I gaze proudly around our fabulous but far-flung team
I'd like to thank you all for turning my nightmare into a dream,
So, though we're physically far apart my profits have far improved
Gettin' the loyal gang back together leaves me virtually unmoved.
I see I don't need your asses sitting around my expensive real estate
So you're all FIRED!- unless you accept my Home Contractors rate-
Surely immediate redundant executive positions had to be expected
For no one is ever safe- present big Head of the Company excepted.
The Buck Stops Here.
In our family tree
Few entertain writing poetry,
But my Great Aunt
Handed me a grant.
To College I went,
Her talents I misspent,
One thing was clear-
I'm a poor Shakespeare.
So, like 'Paradise Lost'
Out I was tossed-
No safe havenly dorm
Thanks to D-grade form.
Such is the curse
Of purveyors of verse,
Down to last buck
Till a stroke struck.
With Great Aunt dead
Good will was read,
My unexpected little dividend
Cheered me no end.
Time wasted at home
I'd lavish on poem,
I strutted up town,
Laid my deposit down.
No stairs to climb,
I'd take my time,
My musings, tediously glacial
Echoing round rooms palatial.
I liked to compose
My rich redolent prose,
Pure black 'pon white-
Like, Old School, write?
Fine paper, finer pen...
Increasingly, now and then,
As poor circumstances demand,
Whatever comes to hand.
My talent, beyond doubt?
Amazingly quickly run out,
Who'd ever have thought
I'd be caught short?
Tragically under financial collapse
I'm reduced to scraps,
My outlook's growing darker-
Newsprint and Magic Marker.
My so rosy outlook
Decimated my cheque book,
Past goodwill rarely counts-
Good cheques don't bounce.
From my bottom floor
Was shown the door,
What problems it poses
When one's door closes?
For half the rent
Upstairs I went, bent-
My heavy rent cheapened
As the stairs steepened.
From canopied four-poster bed
To attic inches overhead,
Like Lizzie Barrett Browning
Fiscally and literature-lly drowning.
Rent a month overdue-
Girlfriends says she's two-
All the money's gone-
A moonlight flit's on.
I'm up at midnight
'Neath moon and skylight,
Sadly I'm not above
Running out on love.
Press the dormer window,
Peer waaaaay down below,
Put aside my vertigo-
Hey, way to go!
I'd knot some sheets
And hit the streets,
But I've some pride-
And a humungous backside.
The rent cheque submitten
I've left woefully underwritten,
Whoever's rattling my door
I'm writing no more!
Giving Writers credit- fiction!
I'm facing cold eviction,
Pen mightier than sword?
Tell my pernicious Landlord.
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?)
Stuck In A Box.
Mother believed when my maker calls me to Glory
She expected me to transit straight past Purgatory,
Surely Saint Peter will welcome me as a fellow saint
With my unblemished record, no cause for complaint?
From the very moment I said my first word
Mother said 'the ideal girl is seen but not heard,'
Dumb obedience to Mother, as per Godly tradition
And my Catholic mom was a mother with a mission.
Just once I brought up the issue of whence I came,
'Where's Dad, what's his name, do we look the same?'
From the back of the bible she withdrew an old photograph,
She spat 'see, Child- some bastard's father and my lesser half.'
One day, reflecting in the mirror in the bathroom
I discovered a secret garden now beginning to bloom,
From that forgotten quarter sprung a scrubby triangle-
Add to which the itchy hair-raising fact of pits in a tangle.
So then mother lectured me on right and wrong,
The only wine, on communion, one Him, Hymn song,
Making plain to me I had a face only a mother might like,
'Be as a nun- popularity with boys means being the town bike.'
She instilled the virtues of virtue as I sprang up,
Thanked God when He 'blessed' me with an A cup,
I'd longed to look swell in a tight come-hither gown,
My one foray in going strapless led to a dressing down.
Together mother dear and the priest had a talk with me;
It seems boys, booze and blazing were the Unholy Trinity,
One Sunday I stood 'tween 'em, before the whole congregation,
On my breast a white bow, confirming my good God reputation.
She must have seen this as being a mothers finest hour,
Pressing a Father's service to protect her innocent flower,
Yep, Mother and Father Riley had my best interests at heart,
Father said 'God forgives your sins,' mother said 'but don't start.'
Mother had me wear clothes designed to say
'Nothing to see here,' swaddled in swathes of grey,
Who or what lay deep beneath was anybody's guess?
Designed less to go out and impress than kneel and confess.
- - - - - - - - -
I've said 'goodbye' to Mother, she's snapped nothing back,
I've hung up my black coat, slung my veiled hat on the rack,
I've taken his picture from her good book before I put it away;
From forgotten book-mark to being framed and put on display.
Ma had finally told the tale of a girl, new to town, alone,
Of the interest in her predicament a gentleman had shown
When she rested her weary seat on the step of the Flatbush Inn,
Of how he'd dined and wined her, how easily she'd been taken in.
Now Ma's in Heaven (if all went as she planned)
And I'm finally free of her heavy restraining hand,
It's time to cast off my cardigans and her puritan views,
Now comes the time to take up offers she felt I had to refuse.
Cardigan unbuttoned, I re-evaluated Gods gift,
My small prospects required no underwired lift,
It was plainly time to jettison my drab underwear,
I went into the closet to find what I'd secreted there...
I slipped on my silk slightly padded bra, fiery red,
A thong to hide my modesty, if barely by a thread,
A tiny black dress to ensure my honour would be lost,
I've no desire to keep temptation at bay or legs crossed.
I recalled the words mother was wont to say
If she suspected her daughter may be led astray,
'Child, if you wish to go to heaven, to pluck the lyre,
Abstain, for drink and smoke serve but to stoke the fire.'
So I went in to the bar, the repository of all sin,
Scarce sat down when a man turned with a grin,
An absinthe in one hand, a Camel butt in the other,
Just the kind of devil who'd be condemned by Mother.
Oh, I recognised the danger, that I cannot deny,
Seen through the glass sparkly, that look in his eye,
Which one of us two poor souls appeared more shocked?
This angel wantonly falling or the good priest unfrocked?
A bit different from the usual offerings, but somewhere along the way the idiot muse took me somewhere unexpected. Ah well, it's the journey I suppose...
End Of The Hippy Dream.
When I finally take my last shot,
Knock back that final tot of gut-rot,
Line up that last toot and blow the lot...
Though mine's a wasted life, swift forgot
Remember this when laying out this old sot:
Lay me 'neath a cool chill spot,
I fear too soon I'll be smokin' hot-
Plant some fragrant herb, a little pot?
Pop in a few wild poppies as a forget-me-not,
Some grassy rolling field; make mine a fitting plot.
Patriotic Republicans proudly boast
'Law And Order' first and foremost,
So, pray, what kind of sense must they be making
Of the latest gang Hell-bent on Housebreaking?
Law Abiders who found it oh so concerning
When Grand Old businesses were burning?
Cries about dark matters to be be silenced with no discourse,
Blind justice must be meted out with swift and undue force!
But when Patriots wave the barred flag,
Protecting the bad name of Fort Bragg?
But, by God when they believe they speak for all the nation???
Christ, then you should hear their Righteous indignation!
Flaunting their colours on the street,
Glass breaking under stamping feet?
Chanting and frightening the frail and defenceless?
Invading property, beating dutiful police senseless?
When you do the Capitol crime
Shouldn't you do Capital time?
And since we're passing comment on Capital punishment-
It's favoured by the current outgoing inciteful President.
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.