Peter Green, first Fleetwood Mac guitarist, dies in his sleep. Music-wise, a sad sad loss; But it was a tragic loss fifty years ago when first he lost himself. (Sometimes you don’t do acid. Acid does you.)

Not Of This World.

I’ll say a sadly late farewell to Peter Green,
He’s gone from the dark place he’s long been,
This man who put his soul into Fleetwood Mac
Then went off on his detour, never to come back.

Peter took a little trip on the Cosmic Cab,
A one-way trip that deals out a heavy tab.

He yearned to soar high to that mystical place
Where the bound to Earth might see Gods face,
So, with enquiring open mind Lysergicly expanded
Pete saw Heaven knows what before he crash-landed.

So if its blissful enlightenment you’re tempted to find
Please- think of how poor lost Peter changed his mind.

 

©Obbverse

Even among those who truly do believe it’s said that life ain’t fair. Now, from the depths of these dark Covid days, out of deepest Michigan, does one hear a faint forlorn ‘hallelujah?’ A warning: Very dark humour.

The Lords Calling.

This Coronavirus does not discriminate
Between the low sinner or the high saint,
For those shown the fickle finger of fate
Some truly believe they have reason for complaint.

In one Michigan nunnery the book tells a sad story,
Despite many a rosary rolled and crosses kissed
Thirteen nuns have been prematurely called to glory,
Thirteen unlucky brides of Christ, sadly missed.

A life of bending the knee to help fallen mothers,
A life where the Good Book is unfailingly right,
A life where sinful pleasures are reserved for others,
A nuns life is black and white and buttoned down tight.

Nuns who’ve spent many long years serving the Lord
In the hope of being taken- eventually- up to Paradise,
Vows of poverty and chastity for only promised reward?
Does ones poor grey short life seem one hell of a sacrifice?

Let us hope when one is consigned to earth
That ones belief remained eternally strong,
And let us pray, for what it’s damn well worth
That ones last thought ain’t ‘Jesus, was I wrong?’

(I do feel for the loss; Though I may not believe I can hope their belief is not misplaced.)

©Obbverse.

Colourful character Brazilian President Bolsonaro contracts a Covid cough; Sounds like a case of Karma to me.

Sniff.

So, the Brazilian President has a teeny touch of the flu.
Boo hoo.
Both green and red-faced, but consumptively battling through.
Aaaatishoo!

‘Simply donning a mask could’ve protected me- and you?’
WHO knew?
Now he thinks wrapping a mask over his mouth is the right thing to do?
Waaaaay overdue.

He could have picked the itchy nose he had as his first clue;
It grew.
He sees the look in the grave eyes of his masked medical crew.
Code Blue.

©Obbverse

Donald J. Trump, or in his mind, the Lone Ranger; The latest mutterings and musings from behind the mask. Hi-Yo psychosis away!

Who Sees A Problem?

Has our unmasked hero decided to stand up?
Donnny says he has masked up and manned up,
He says that mask makes him look like the Lone Ranger-
No more will he be laughing loonily in the face of danger.

But the Lone Ranger wore his mask to cover his eyes
Not as a medical protector but as a personal disguise,
Then, Don feared wearing a mask wouldn’t look Presidential, right?
Pushing a mouth mask up over his peepers, now don’t he look a sight?

Hey, even getting Don to consider any mask ranks as a bonus-
As his long-standing contemptuous sniffing at Corona’s shown us-
So even if he stumblingly emerges from the darkness, dimly blinking
At least it’s one baby-step on his journey out of blind blinkered thinking.

©Obbverse

Walking through the backwaters of the ol’ neighbourhood I literally stumbled over a leafy landmark. So I sat back on the grass and recalled days of rash deeds, youthful foolishness and pure dumb luck.

Barking.

My young bro had a best buddy, Carl ‘Crazy’ Miller,
This singular boy did not possess one single scintilla
Of simple common sense the Maker bestows on mankind;
Carl could be big trouble, but very little troubled his mind.

Carl was a prospective member of the Punch  Bunch-
The kids who only went to school to share your lunch?
By the time Crazy had attained the heady age of eleven
‘Twas obvious he wouldn’t be heading to Varsity, or heaven.

Anyway, down at the dead end of desolate Ingoldsby Street
The long promised demolition of a fine old fixture, complete;
The barn-like Theresa Green Home For Refined Retired Gentlefolk
Finally lay laid waste, ‘neath the shadow of a high and mighty oak.

My brother and Carl, being at that tender age-
Before girls turn one’s head and hormones rage,
Before teenage hi-jinks result in serving hard time-
Saw a tree sat on now public land, and free to climb.

Previously protected behind a palisade ten feet tall,
Its private land and croquet lawn, now turned over to all,
Carl’s eye beheld that crazed glint of the devil-may-care,
This oak would be Carl’s Everest and my bros nightmare.

Up a handy branch Crazy sprung, with a single bound,
With simian agility up he swung, foregoing safer ground,
Monkey see monkey do, my bro followed, but slowly, in kind,
Leaving those below looking up at bro, pale, dragging behind.

Halfway up bro heard the sound of dry wood snapping
Followed by Carl plummeting past, arms crazily flapping,
My brother followed Carl’s progress aaaaall the way down
Waiting for one stout branch to stave in Carl’s thick crown.

As a switch took a swatch of Carl’s curls it dawned on him
That if he hit this tree they could both lose a healthy limb-
Now the blood curdling uncontrolled bladder loosing scream,
Oh- did I mention this tree was perched by a tinkling stream?

This body of water was contained by a concrete culvert,
But wherever Carl chanced to land had to bloody well hurt,
Came the sound of a splash and his pals dashed out to aid him,
Amazingly, Crazy landed in water and, miraculously, could swim.

He waded out of the chill waters, shivering but safe, Christ be praised,
All gathered gazed on amazed, yet Carl looked imperturbably unfazed,
A bump on the noggin, a broken fingernail, but not one broken bone,
I’d say Carl had the luck o’ the devil- but he’s known to look after his own.

©Obbverse

Tennis star Novak Djokovic’s stubborn stance on playing through the pandemic proves problematic.

Return Of Service.

Oh, naive Novak Djokovic, where have you been?
Traipsing around Serbia, serving up Covid-nineteen?
Showing unmasked contempt for any possible vaccine
Till a routine swab returns results Novak hadn’t foreseen,
Novak was positive his snot samples would come back clean:
Gone from playing in open tournaments to staying in quarantine.

 

©Obbverse

I’ve been reminded lately of those misty-eyed memories of innocent school days. Lets start the lesson, shall we?

Done Learning.

One thing you’ll do as you approach a certain age
Is to take more notice of the ‘Family Notices’ page,
Though todays tabloid lacks yesteryears broadsheet heft
It’s a morbid pleasure checkin’ out who you know has left.

I like to read the morning paper before the afternoon
So one morn I ordered brunch and opened the Tribune;
The usual ho-hum news, more plague, pestilence and war,
Then I fell upon some news that shook me to my souls core.

The sweet mochaccino suddenly took on a sour taste,
The ever sunny tan faded as I sat staring, chalk faced,
For there, amongst the fine print writ bold in gothic font
Was news of a loss so heavy I dropped my damn croissant!

My old Deputy Headmaster of dear Hagleigh High- dead?
I raised my trembling hands up to hold my shaking head,
I thought of the lessons that Bertie had dutifully imparted,
How his role as leader was never less than whole-hearted.

I recalled the angles and planes of that indomitable face,
All those deep-seared lifelong lessons time cannot erase…
My concerned wife said I appeared to be the picture of grief,
She handed me some tissue, which I took with tearful relief.

The old Alma Mater had supplied a glowing obituary
For one most considered Hagleigh’s highest luminary,
The tale they told of this sainted man of the highest order
Compelled me to compile my thoughts on the Tribunes border.

In my day, at Hagleigh High the most I hoped to achieve
Was to gain School Certificate and honourably leave,
Unfortunately, to gain this certificate one had to pass
Both English and Mathematics- a step too far for me, alas.

To fail in either one meant one hadn’t made the grade,
You’d be cast off to the Armed Forces, or off to get a trade,
And the Deputy-Head taught my class Mathematics- of course!
One lousy week in his class saw him flogging this flagging horse.

I was made painfully aware I had deficiencies to overcome,
Not heeding screamed instructions? to him I’m deaf or dumb;
In my first month I knew mathematics could not be mastered
Thanks to a sneering confidence-sapping bat-crap crazy bastard.

I was left an an utter loss by Berties scrawlings on the board,
The answer I came up with was ‘shut up, pray to be ignored,’
Yet my English improbably improved with every word I wrote-
Penmanship forging ahead; I forged a most convincing sick note.

Pre-math class every morning you’d find me sitting, sweating
In the toilets, relieving myself of any chance of pants wetting,
Every other cubicle engaged by four-fifths of the Fifth Form,
Every coughing, wheezing weedy Kool kid smokin’ up a storm.

I do still recall those chill mornings, getting my knickers in a twist,
All I need is to roll the Rolex up, count the livid scars on my wrist.

So, to end my little bye bye Bertie story, I’m glad he’s gone to Glory,
But first, let’s hope, like me, he does three full years in Purgatory.

 

©Obbverse

Another Seventies Glam pop star now glimmers up high in the sky. Bye, Sweet Steve Priest.

Losing Our Sparkle.

Time has come to say goodbye to Steve Priest,
From this earthly contract he’s been released,
Bye,’Ballroom Blitz’ and ‘Fox On The Run,’
Finally Steve’s glitteringly Glam career is done.

Steve lays his heavy bass down at last,
Steve’s pounding beat is in the past,
Lets hope, as his Angel takes his spangly sleeve
He sweetly smiles and asks ‘are you ready, Steve?’

(So, yeah, okay, the last line makes more sense to the true Sweet fan.)

 

©Obbverse

Donald guilessly says, when talking up his unemployment numbers, ‘Hopefully George Floyd is looking down right now and saying “this is a great thing that’s happening for our country.” ‘ Huh?

The Usual Pigs Ear.

I used to think Don was a proper moron
But he’s proved me wrong, sad to admit,
As his latest speech ramblingly wore on
His words confirm he’s the complete half-wit.

After George Floyd’s life was thuggishly taken
By some swine misrepresenting the police,
Wouldn’t any prescient President worth his bacon
Speak less of unemployment and more of peace?

To say George is up there, agreeably beaming
Shows Donald’s both tone deaf and color blind,
At best, let’s just say Don’s delusionlly dreaming,
At worst, he’s simply out of his tiny freaking mind.
 

American Law and Order 101; It’s not hard, it’s always been black and white. And so it goes… Again.

Shielded From Evil.

Another black man lies in the street,
Another white cop keeps him down,
So slowly a good heart ceases to beat;
That’s justice served in Chauvin Town.

Those moving pictures are a tragedy to behold,
Kneed evidence of another good ol’ boy in blue?
It makes any poor innocent mans blood run cold;
Pray, Officer Chauvin, who protects us from you?

 

©Obbverse