President Trump, Resident Shaman. Donald's re-election plans were looking sick So he drugged out his old tired but trusty trick, Doctor Don's patented cure is downright cruel; Donny decides Doctor Fauci must play the fool. He don't mince words with his double dealings, Don sure don't believe in masking his feelings, Good Doctor Fauci has been hung out to dry, Guess who Donny's designated as his fall guy? Now Don says all Doctor Fauci's sick talk is phony? Great Medicine Man Don knows better than Tony? Tony's just another discarded discredited Trump minion? Would you stake your your life on witch doctors opinion?
Well Run Dry.
I used to thrill
To raise the quill,
Words gambolled on and on;
I guess that thrill is gone.
Dyspraxic digits clubbed the keyboard,
Typos and good grammar ignored,
Ideas tumbled happily from the mind
As fingers fumbled, sentences behind.
I’d thought I had something to say,
An amusing pun, bandy some wordplay,
Double entendres, two-fingered typed fun,
Now it’s two thumbs down for this tragic one.
Joie de vivre weighs heavy in my head,
Even my black humour is all but dead,
Trying to dredge up some light flight of fancy
Would mean a lift of spirit worthy of necromancy.
To raise the odd smile was my glad intent,
Sad, all my good humour’s gone off and went,
Perhaps it’s for the best to to stay quietly depressed?
So I’ll do as weary old readers have and give it a rest.
(Just a touch of burn-out showing? Obviously. Overtly melodramatic? Yep. Self-pitying? Yessiree Bob. Maudlin? Yes indeedy. So, time for a little time out? Fuck yes.)
That West Bromwich Albion crowd are all celebrating again,
There’ll be cheers and beers being hurled in Halfords Lane,
Navy and white scarves will abound around Old Birmingham town,
At least till next May when, historically they’re bound to go down.
The Albion are one of those teams that drive loyal fans to drink,
All season long, nailed to the table bottom or clinging on the brink,
The Baggies, back in in their regulation spot, flirting with relegation-
At least of late poor Aston Villa fans can sympathise with that situation.
Still, congratulations! on becoming Birminghams second best,
Now two bum *Brum fans can still share in one common interest,
For one season the twain are Premier League teams, and so sitting pretty,
Both loving lording it over mutually loathed Wolves and Birmingham City.
*Appellation the lucky locals use for Birmingham.
A Kick To The Chorus.
Once again Mr Trump’s re-election campaign
Is giving Neil Young cause to legally complain,
Neil’s getting grumpy that his copyrighted songs
Are being illegally played to promote Don’s wrongs.
Shouldn’t one of Don’s army of attorneys kindly explain
To Don that old Young’s tunes ain’t in the public domain?
All the plaintiff Neil wishes is for Don to cease and desist
From ripping his songs off and on to Don’s lousy party list.
The Rolling Stones have led the chorus of complaints, in vain,
‘You can’t always get what you want’ remains Trump’s refrain,
Don, use Ted Nugent’s crap, Teddy loves you, or ask Kanye West-
No, mebbe not, the colourful Kanye mightn’t pass Don’s litmus test.
Will Donald simply turn his back on all noisy complaints again?
Treat true legitimate protests with his usual dismissive disdain?
Well, the Rolling Stones have screamed at Don to stop for years-
It appears there isn’t a great deal resonating between dumb ears.
Pity Party At Egos Anonymous.
Sometimes when you wake up feeling sad and blue
On a rare blue moon when doubt bedevils even you,
When the wife’s heart feels cold, the future looks bleak
It’s time to lay your burden down and stand up and speak.
Don is prepared to bare his very soul- if he must,
Though heeding others opinion fills him with disgust.
‘Hello, my name is Donald and I’m a Selfish Neurotic,
Though those in my party prefer the term ‘quixotic,’
And now, as I think back on four hard fraught years
Thinking of a future past November brings me to tears.’
‘Why, suddenly no-one wants to be my Bestie?
Now all my good ol’ boys and Yes-men detest me.’
It’s a rare privilege seeing this side of Donald J. Trump,
In many a throat there his mawkish tale raises a lump,
There he stands, a broken man with his token friends
Ever deeper into self-pitying he maudlinly descends.
‘So, everybody dislikes me because of my personality?’
For once everyone freely agrees with Don, like, totally.
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.
Wallace And Vomit.
Donald sat down to do another fawning Fox interview
But Wallace tried to keep Don on the straight and true,
Don responded with his usual pouting pique and rancour-
This was not the usual unctuous behaviour of a Fox anchor!
Chris had upset the finest of well-scripted double acts,
Swiftly Don back-handed Wallace his ‘alternative facts,’
Don was petulant, peeved pissed off and confounded-
No President willingly trots out onto Fox to be hounded.
Don doesn’t wish to to illuminate, he prefers dark misdirection,
To confuse, obfuscate, divide and misrule to wangle another election,
Leaving Don sweating in the spotlight ain’t what Chris is paid to do;
Donald’s memo strongly suggests a change in Foxes personnel is due.
Fly, My Pretties!
These are painful days
For those in aviation,
Passengers preferring home-stays
And stowing the vacation.
There’s hardly anyone flying,
There’s little cash flow,
Even with rebates applying
Where the Hell to go?
I’m not flying anywhere
El Cheapo fares or not
I daren’t fly Ryanair-
Certainly not fu- flying Aeroflot.
Thanks to Covid 19
People cain’t safely roam,
It’s weeks in quarantine
Or stay safe at home.
Littering up every airport,
Aircraft from every land,
Long haul Dreamliners, caught short
Flightlessly sit and stand.
Airbuses and Bombardiers abound,
There’s buttloads of big-as Boeings
Settling into the soggy ground,
ain’t no comings or goings.
Now travel’s reached an impasse
Retain all tickets and receipts,
Once the plane’s kicked off the grass
We’ll happily hold your seats.
Still, in the States
Passengers still take flight,
Despite soaring infection rates,
It’s their unrestricted Right.
There there’s no travel ban,
Fly off where’er you please,
Be a high-steppin’ travellin’ man,
Ignore that infectious sneeze.
Some refuse to be tied down,
Some have deadlines to meet,
At another place, another town,
Scything down from 20,000 feet.
So, fasten your safety belt,
Breath that recirculated air,
Offer up a prayer, heartfelt
That you’ve packed clean underwear.
Only a brave foolhardy few
Spread wings and fly,
If that someone is you
Good luck, and goodbye.
Devils And The Deep Blue Sea.
What’s happening to the National Party’s leadership?
Each new leader they select sees the Party’s popularity slip,
Since Commodore Key left leaving First Mate Billy the wheel
Helming the Titanic rather than the Blue Boat holds more appeal.
Old Bill, wise but dull as dishwater- his fortunes sank,
So Simon stepped up from the poop deck to higher rank,
Sadly Simon was simply out of his depth, young and green,
Under Simon the the boat- and votes- slid down like a submarine.
All too soon ’twas a grim story poor Simons opinion polls told,
Up from the mutinous crew stepped Todd, and Simon was rolled,
So a new Cap’n took the helm, they say the cream rises to the top,
But after a mere 67 days Captain Presumptuous found he was a flop.
Now Todd’s dream boat has sailed,
Another Leader’s bottled it and bailed,
The True Blue Crew ran about, looking around
But good fresh new Blue blood’s thin on the ground.
Now hard embittered Old School Jude-vcious runs the barge,
Tryin’ to clean up her
shit ship even as Deputy Gerry looms large,
In her steely claw the National scow’s bound to take a hard Right turn,
Losing middle ground rowing in ever decreasing circles- that’s her concern.
Roger Jason Stone, liar, dirty trickster and cheat,
Guilty of every damn charge on his long rap sheet,
Convicted of the sin of perjury by a jury of his peers,
A criminal who deserves to be sent down for years.
But no fear of confinement ol’ Roguish Roger faces
For Mr Stone has low friends in the highest places,
Although his complete culpability cannot be disputed
He just knows his just sentence must be commuted.
From looking at three years and four months in jail
Roger finds he doesn’t have to raise a sweat- or bail,
What a GreaT reward for the GOPs consummate liar,
Plucked out of frying pan, slithering back into the mire.
Now Don’s ‘Drain The Swamp’ cry has the ring of fiction,
‘Lock Her up!’ somehow lacks, unlike Roger, real conviction,
So run free, mean moody and Machiavellian Mr Stone;
But Don, know it’s by your creepy company you’re known.
Still, it gives you pause
To consider what would cause
Dodgy Don to cut a crook a even break-
Double-dealer Don, for philanthropy’s sake!
Sooo, why does Don feel the unjustified need to intervene,
Help Rog the Rat, who’s spent his life nose down the latrine?
Does Roger have some dirt on Don in his deep bag of tricks
For Donald to forgive the most unconscionable of pricks?