Sup, Bro?
All things must pass;
Still, lets raise a glass
To gone-too-soon Chet,
No, not forgotten just yet.
He’d not want us to cry,
He’d rather see a dry eye,
He was all about fun and laughs
And his life was never lived by halves.
Now, if he were standing here
He’d say ‘Cheers’ and sink his beer,
So here’s to a fine uncle and big brother,
And, thinking of Chet, who’s keen on another?
Hit It Off.
We’d take in a long road trip getting to our holiday destination
So we settled back after settling on the good old Oldies station,
On cruise control we hummed along, signal clear and loud and strong,
Golden oldies, transported back to the old days for which we long.
But on this long trip, something felt strange indeed,
Today our treasured songs sounded somewhat hackneyed,
Every song they played we’d heard many times before,
All too soon my partner in harmony started to snore.
I heard the Eagles reiterate their Californian lament
And just as I thought they’d never leave, they went,
Up until now I’d found them soothingly appealing,
Two songs later I’d lost that peaceful easy feeling.
On the hour I was treated to the best of Fleetwwod Mac,
Six of the best (and the rest) back to back to back,
Ten minutes later and again, the Eagles were checkin’ in,
Now those turkeys welcome was beginin’ to wear thin.
But so long as as my beloved lay a’lolling in her seat
I vowed to listen to whatever sins songs they’d repeat,
‘Tween that and the snoring from my sweet somnolent wife
I spent the most boring day I’ve ever heard in my life.
I swear I’d hand Mephistopheles my tarnished soul
To save me hearing another tinkling trill by Billy Joel,
I’m so over the tragedys of ‘Staying Alive’ and ‘Jive Talking’
-Anything in the catalogue of adenoidal Bee Gees squawking.
Back then, this guy was the most avid champion of Queen,
Now, let’s say this fan of flamboyant Freddie is a has-been,
All that Rhapsodic bombast- oh, and on that histrionic note
I’d love to cram Meatloaf’s every last word down his throat.
Let’s not forget the gals, like the countrified poppy Shania Twain
And her patented line-dancing toons that tap deep into your brain,
And once I loved the pitch and depth in that song by Celine Dione…
But now, couldn’t she just Jack it in, and not go on and on and on…
I drove on, the sun shone on, morning dragged into the afternoon,
Every familiar song had me hope my darling would wake up- soon,
As the miles and day wore on my sore eyes and ears began burning;
More Fleetwood Mac- or a dodgy Big Mac- set my stomach churning.
At sunset I heard a yawn and saw my sleeping beauty had awoken,
At last, along with her spell, my unwanted record could be broken,
Off went the radio, and to say the silence was awkward wasn’t wrong;
So much for happy trails, reminiscences, and a jolly good ol’ singalong
Draw Your Own Conclusions.
That nasty storm Dorian is one mean hurricane,
It’s left the Bahamas behind, but in a world of pain,
Among Florida’s citizenry dark clouds started to form-
Fear not, President Trump has his eye on the storm.
He believes he knows where it will make landfall
And Alabama’s fine folk had better heed his call,
For no matter how hard Mother Nature blows
Wherever Donald proposes is where Dorian goes.
An incredulous gasp is expelled by the weathermen,
Stunned by the Presidents sharp forecasting acumen,
They all believed he’d simply be a meteorological moron,
No doubts now, since he has their maps to draw on.
Going Blondly Where None Have Gone Before.
Since Boris Johnson has taken command
Of England’s grim and unpleasantly divided land
Do you wonder where Parliamentary democracy went?
That question gets short shrift from Boris The Omnipotent.
Want some time for Parliamentary debate?
Boris smilingly says ‘sorry, but time’s up, too late,’
Now that Boris’s big butt’s behind the steering wheel
It’s foot down to throttle any rumblings about his no deal.
BoJo is hellbent on doing what Teresa couldn’t achieve,
Boris’s going to fu- fly off, and without a buy-your-leave,
Driving blindly forward to where there’s no coming back,
Bozo’s exiting,hard, Right, into a cold unfriendly cul-de-sac.
A Kick In The Guts.
Since a humourous poetry competition rejected the fine words I’d written
I’ve been forced to take some time to review the ill-fated verse submitten,
Now to add to my mental misery, by a virulent stomach flu I’ve been smitten,
If the first upset left me sick as a dog, the second leaves me weak as a kitten,
Regurgitating my turned down offerings was unsettling I don’t mind admittin’,
Keeping cruel criticism and chicken soup down ain’r easy- from where I’m sittin’.
Real Estate Buffoon.
Donald thunked ‘wouldn’t it be great
To make Greenland the fifty-first state?’
For Don this expensive venture holds great appeal-
And Trump could bank on Treasury to finance his deal.
To Donald, something about this place feels right,
Yes, it is a particularly strategically important military site,
But imagine, Dons own snow-white impenetrable garrison?
Suddenly Puerto Rico’s importance pales in comparison.
It would be his greatest deal, save for one small detail;
Those damn Danes say their territory is NOT for sale,
Don looks jealously at those rolling fields of green,
What a great private golf resort it could’ve been.
Nolo Contendere.
Checked my E-mails, same old dull routine,
Then a new missive lights my dull grey screen,
News from a competition entered loooong ago,
Click ‘open’, oh, but don’t get my hopes up though.
I’ve so hoped for the best before,
And I’d be disappointed once more.
Again, rejection, painful but not unexpected,
Again my select name amongst the unselected,
But after a sigh, a roll of the eyes and a rueful smile
I thought I’d read what wonders had topped the pile.
Perhaps, judging by the mood I was in
I shouldn’t judge- but where can I begin?
One thing required in a humourous poem contest
Is content that leaves one laughing, not depressed,
I’ll agree it is the good judges call to be fair, firm and tough
And I’ll allow my work this year- and hers- ain’t good enough.
