Category Archives: poetry

Tim Conway, quirky comedian, leaves us with a smile.

Time, Tim.

Just days after the departure of Doris Day
Tim Conway has gone and gone the same way,
He’s done last his run, he’s taken his final bow,
He’ll be asking Saint Peter about any openings by now.

Who could ever forget
Tim cracking up Carol Burnett
And leaving the entire set
With cheeks and tidy-whities wet?

So Tim has sadly gone, and only God knows why-
Perhaps, these days, He feels He needs a funny guy?
Lordy, it’s not for us to question the likes of Thou
But he’s gone, and left, and it’s a sadder world now.

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The final curtain call for Doris Day. A lovely person, apparently, but her screen persona was quite, shall we say, twee?

YesterDay.

We say goodnight to Doris today,
At ninety-seven she’s faded away,
No more virtuous parts will Doris play,
Bye, Americas eternally virginal sweetheart.

Perpetually preppy peppy Doris Day,
No movie dared show her going astray,
Not the kind of girl to take a roll in the hay,
Always the sweet girl-next-door, never the tart.

‘No no no’ our Doris must always say,
No petting, no rucking up of the duvet,
No deflowering of Doris, no hint of foreplay-
Not even with Rock Hudson gayly playing his part.

Doris was forever doomed to portray
The gal who favoured pajamas over negligee,
The blonde who’d kneel before bed- and pray!
No impassioned puckering could prise her lips apart.

The Rolling Stones front man goes under the knife for a little bit of maintenance. Time waits for no man, Mick my boy.

Surgery For The Ol’ Devil.

Old Sir Mick just keeps on a’rolling,
Geriatric Mick prefers jiving to strolling,
But now, in his seventies his step’s begun to stutter
His high-living past has set his stony heart all a’flutter.

A dickey heart valve needs refurbishment
For Micks old ticker’s taken some punishment,
There’s no doubt when it comes to wear and tear
Micks plucky organ’s done more than its fair share.

Now the old pump is suffering from overuse,
But in Micks case it sure ain’t down to self abuse,
Cigarettes and bad habits have contributed to his current issues
But his old wives and girlfriends won’t be reaching for the tissues.

To Harry and Meghan, a new Royal arrival, by the name of Archie, Earl of Dumbarton. What’s in a name anyhow?

Whatshisname.

Welcome, new princeling, to the Windsor fold,
What name and title shall the royal child hold?
Will the good Harry and fair Meghan’s first born
Be stuck with an old name, staid and well worn?

Since the kid is a distant seventh in line to the throne
Can’t a little laissez-faire latitude to lineage be shown?
Georgy, Jamie and Eddy do sound stuffy and starchy
But surly Liz will arch an eyebrow to a regal Archie?

It seems almost willfully comical to choose a moniker
So commonly associated with Betty and Veronica,
But if that’s the Hipster name Harry has set his heart on
He’ll be lumbered with Archie, the poor little Dumbarton.

Texas, a law unto itself; guns, religion, rights, and an Attorney General who makes you get down on your knees and ask ‘Why, in the name of all that’s Holy, why?’

The Arms Of Jesus.

You don’t want to mess with the Lone Star state,
They don’t believe in listening to illiberal debate,
They have faith in a President and God being great,
They stick to their guns, say their piece- and shoot straight

There, their view on life is conservative,
There a God-fearing life you better live,
Where if, for public office you hope to stand
You have to have an NRA permit in your hot hand.

Now, they have an Attorney General, name o’ Ken,
Once a highfalutin lawyer a pric– prince amongst men,
He swears by commandments delivered way back when
Though in Texas ‘Thou shalt not kill’ scrapes in at number ten.

Now good ol’ Ken wants to bring guns into church-
Be like good ol’ times, back at the good ol’ John Birch-
There’s nothing like feeling ones faith being bolstered
Than a pistol pressed to your heart, shoulder holstered.

Soon at church you can sing to Him, do the Mass,
Hope like hell the hymn don’t strain the stained glass,
There, while others pray you must just let the sermon pass,
On alert for an armed invader intruding, ready to cap his ass.

But Kens legislation isn’t the blessing that it seems,
Taking arms into Gods house is taking it to extremes,
Has Ken miss-heard His word, or skipped the Lesson?
Or is he knee deep in the service of Smith and Wesson?

The Premier League Football Show! Drama, farce, heart-rending finales! Or a cheap slipshod Horror Show. Direct from Manchester, we present-

Dribbling On.

I’ve been reduced to tears with what I’ve just sadly seen,
A bad Shakespearean tragedy, played out on the big screen,
I saw a dull first act, then a direr second half, ay, but the rub
Was seeing City outperform United, down at our neutral pub.

How those happy blue-clad lads scoffed and laughed
As I sobbed in the shadows, hand clenched to my Draught,
To drown my sorrows it’s swig, swallow, belch- then repeat;
But not even Boddingtons can dull the pain of this bitter defeat.

I rewound the game in my mind, I compared the teams,
My United looked all clapped-out at the Theatre of Dreams,
Especially statuesque Pogba, devoid of emotion- or motion;
The only thing to get him goin’ would be some Sennapod potion.

Our offence seemed content to quietly sit back
Hoping indolence would be the best form of attack,
The City midfield were all fleet of foot and quick of mind,
Ours gave chase, ran all over the place, always two feet behind.

But our backline stood tall and strong, stout and true,
They and the keeper conspired to keep out all- but two;
So all I can do is put on a smile and say ‘the best team won,’
I love Old Trafford, but Gunnar, there’s rebuildin’ to be done.

Walking woozily to the bar I recall when we were Best,
Now the froth has gone, up at the top are teams I detest,
It’s with tears in my beer I cry ‘Christ, how can life be so cruel?’
God above, my choice for Champion is down to City or Liverpool.

Seasons come and go, but winter is the only one that, depressingly, doesn’t go fast enough.

Things Are Picking Up At Walgreens.

We were out for a last Fall sunny Sunday drive-
The forecast says a Winter blast is due to arrive,
As around the picturesque river road we wended
It was plain to see our long Indian Summer had ended.

In the breeze the golden leaves were autumnally falling,
An ill wind was coming, a most unwelcome cold calling,
Soon it would be months of dark depressing grey days,
Soon my summery smile would be impossible to raise.

The chill of Winter, when good humour hibernates,
When goodwill towards ones good fellows dissipates,
Winter, the time of running noses and lingering coughs,
When there’s more downs than ups, less peaks than troughs.

But

On gloomy winter days when you cannot face yourself
Help is at hand, up in the medicine cabinet, top shelf,
Push aside the Vicks, the Sudafed, the razor, so keen,
And all is happiness and light, thanks to… Fluoxetine!