Hitting Home.
Donald loves to send out helpful tweets,
It’s one of dear Donald’s endearing conceits,
And he’s not at all racist, as all his critics claim,
He just want ’em all to go back to whence they came.
Not A Prayer At Lords.
There’s no more gracious loser than that humble Black Capped bloke,
Though handicapped by the International Cricket Councils ruling joke-
Backing England to win on boundaries, the latest of their master strokes-
Including that deflected six from that lucky bast- batsman, Master Stokes!?
The Dark Side, Han Solo and Me.
I was just on the cusp of that painfully awkward age
When sweet dreams turn strange and hormones rage,
When I went off to bed my sleep was thin and fleeting,
Boy, those crazy fever dreams would take some beating.
One night I drank down my cup of warm Ovaltine,
Settled into my Star Wars sheets, crisp and clean,
Safe and sound in my bed, tucked up nice and warm
I slept, dreams wandering towards the female form.
I woke with a sudden start, bolt upright I shot,
I was panting, burning hot, and in quite a spot,
My Luke Skywalker PJs now fitted rather snugly,
The reason, once it appeared, was pretty ugly.
I could only conclude that either time is a thief
Or I’d fainted for a moment, sublimely brief,
But once I was roused from my involuntary nap
I spied an issue that embarrasses many a young chap.
Past Mother dear in the kitchen I tried to scamper
With sheets and PJs hid deep in the laundry hamper,
Mama sweetly enquired what I had spilt on the quilt,
Gazing into my eyes, seeing two mute revelations of guilt.
She sighed and rolled her eyes, I swiftly let mine fall,
She picked up the phone, went into the hall, made a call,
Spoke to Papa in the hushed tones reserved for disaster,
Hung up, promptly called on assistance from the Pastor.
He told me of the sin of Onan, of strong willpower,
Of the cool soothing benefits of a long cold shower,
To stay pure of mind, ignore the lure of the Devils daughter;
But my sinful thoughts couldn’t be washed away by Holy Water.
The good Pastor tried, oh by God he tried
To act as my mentor and my spiritual guide,
He strongly advised me to seek comfort in prayer
And to toss out my poster of gold bikini clad Princess Leia.
He pulled out the Good Book, he quoted chapter and verse-
Old Testaments about plucking thine eye out- and worse-
God knows, growing boys are plagued by growing glands
But did the Pastor have to slip in the old tale of hairy hands?
All this noble talk came to naught,
I’d go to bed tense and overwrought,
Even if I fell asleep untouched by shame
In my dreams Leia beckoned, and I came.
My belief in divine retribution faded day by day,
I preferred to live and believe in a galaxy far far away,
As my developing mind and body grew and evolved
I decided if we’re made in His image- problem solved.
Still, as I soaped up behind the streaming shower door
For a hot and steamy best part of an hour- or more-
I wondered if the down sprouting under my arms
Might start to gravitate down to my palms.
With a face overrun with acne and suppurating pimply sores
No pretty girls would face me, so I withdrew into Star Wars,
For three years I held Princess Leia close, to my heart,
Reimagining Star Wars with me playing the Hand Solo part.
One day I passed the Pastor and he stopped and said
‘Have you been good?’ and I felt my face burning red,
All that sage advice He had offered that I’d not taken-
He turned away, leaving the hand I’d proffered unshaken.
I was slipping down the Dark Side of a slippery slope,
I’d long lost the Pastors faith but just when I’d lost hope
Sweet Charity took pity on me, made me, her latest rookie,
Otherwise it was chop off my right hand or become a Wookiee.
A Sad Business.
It’s a hard old life for our poor hard-working Sanjay,
Manning the tills, at the counter eighteen hours a day,
Opening the doors at the first hint of dawns early light,
Not closing those doors till the clock ticks past midnight.
But yesterday Sanjay appeared bleary weary and grey-faced
And on his always-open door this declaration he tearily placed,
‘Closed this morning, thanks to the Black Cap over-achievement’
This Cup-upset leaves Sanjay mourning an unexpected bereavement.
Ciao, Jaoa Gilberto.
‘Bye to the man who made ‘The Girl From Ipenema,’
That ode to the hot-blooded Latin dreamer- and schemer,
Jaoa’s beach partying days are done,
For him, the Ipeneman sands have run,
He’s had his time, his moment in the sun.
For Jaoa Gilberto, the reclusive master of the Bossa Nova
The dreams of golden beaches and glistening peaches are over.
Cast Upon The Waters.
Laden to the brim with prime Jim Beam
The ol’ Kentucky warehouse caught afire,
It proved dispiriting to the Fire Fighting team
So sorrowfully trying to water down that pyre.
What did not burn flowed slowly downstream,
What more could a lucky Kentucky fisherman desire?
Fish flopping happily into the net is an anglers dream-
Steamed pickled fish out of water, straight into the fryer.
The Big Show Off.
On July the Fourth, Independence Day
President Trump put on his great display,
The Air Force planes soared and roared overhead
As Donald addressed his MAGA cap waving sea of red.
It was quite the show of militaristic might,
A tip of the hat to the old, the traditional, the white,
Then down came the rain, soaking the poor crowd through,
Between the rains and the planes Don screamed himself blue.
