Artistic Licence.
Trenton’s lil’ old Arts Fest
Was once up there with the best,
Call me artless, but may I suggest
That’s a claim we should lay to rest?
How passionately artistic argument runs
Amongst Trenton’s high-minded ones,
It seems every mother-loving son’s
Still going at it great great guns.
A Touch Of The Blarney.
In Ireland the Church has long held sway,
It’s been ”listen to Father’ for forever and a day,
Eternally, paternally told to watch what you say,
To blaspheme means you’ve Hell to pay.
Or at least a spell in Purgatory.
But now it’s influence is on the wane,
Soon it will not be a crime to profane,
Though many Fathers will dogmatically remain
Convinced it’s a sin to take Gods name in vain,
And to say so deserves a stint in the reformatory.
Father McEvedy kneels in despair,
He’s been praying hard to Him up There,
But his cassock and faith are getting threadbare;
Christ, what happened to the power of prayer?
Perhaps He’s deaf to old fashioned oratory?
Soon, I swear, you’ll be able to say your piece
And not be forced to confess to the priest and police,
When a quiet oath is not heard as a breach of the peace;
In Ireland, miracles and wonders will never cease.
If you believe the old old story.
Ruminations From A Little Room.
There are times, times when Nature calls
When on the verge but the urge stalls;
After arriving white-knuckled,
Zipping down, belt unbuckled,
Then taking your seat with indecent haste
You find yourself sat, with time to waste.
What a tedious place to be confined,
In a silent cubicle, in a bind.
But no poet minds being ‘unavoidably detained,’
Sitting, pondering, mind wandering unrestrained,
I refuse to sit idly by,
I’ve pen and paper, triple ply…
Now my tale is told, and in reasonable rhyme,
A half-decent job, given the constraints of time.
It’s a bit slap-dash, it won’t win any poetry prize
But this gutsy effort still brings tears to my eyes.
(This is as close to the edge of bad taste as I tread. And who wants to tread any deeper?)
The Man, The Marvel.
When it comes to making America great
Don won’t listen to unreasonable G7 debate,
Because he’s got a hot date, and can’t be late
His parting shot is ‘Add Russia and make it a G8.’
Don and his G7 buddies can’t get along,
All six of ’em tried to tell him HE’S wrong,
To Don nothing’s more Right than being strong,
Just like Captain ‘Merica, The Hulk and King Kong.
Hot And Cold.
Don’s dishing out presidential pardons willy-nilly,
Forgiving old felonious friends at will and at whim,
But mention faithful old Mueller and Don grows chilly-
Chances of Don forgiving Bob are infinitesimally slim.
Questions of his hot Stormy affair are also met frostily
As his ardour and memories of her mammaries begin to dim,
So Don won’t dismiss Ms Kardashians request as frivolously silly,
Though part of the deal will be having to twerk for it, Kim.
Tough Times For Tiny Tim,
What a cruel and tragic tale the floor supervisor had to tell;
There’ll be no overtime in this sweatshop for quite a spell;
Poor Bob Cratchit choked back the tears and his face fell,
Back to breadcrusts and gruel for Tiny Tim and Little Nell.
Pardon My Presumption?
The poor hard done-by hounded witch-hunted president
is grateful his big-shot New York shyster lawyer’s so prescient,
Rudy completely agrees with what Don’s said all along-
The president, or at least this one, can do no wrong.
There’s only one verdict that’s reachable,
This presidents word is unimpeachable.
Should some scandal appear wherin Don might be involved
Don can be pardoned by the president, and problem absolved!
It matters not one jot what evidence Mueller eventually presents,
Giuliani’s ‘Get Out Of Jail’ card gives his client a rock-solid defence.
God knows its a delusion to think he’ll ever resign
Now Don knows to err is human, to forgive, divine.
