Official Police Escort.
On June 17, '94 Ford salesmen sat glued to the TV all day,
Every eye on a white Bronco, the show- 'Drive-by With OJ,'
Following cops on a long slow drive down the Five Freeway,
A free all-day live TV priceless product placement display
With not a hope in Hades of OJ making a quick getaway;
OJ deserved a one-off cheque, but hey- crime don't pay.
(Any opinions or actions attributed to bad actors riding shotgun in a Bronco were not endorsed or approved of by the Flawed Motor Company.)
(Part Two of The Flawed Concept trilogy, if that doesn't sound too pretentious.)
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The Flawed Concept.
Mr Ford viewed the tiny cars flooding in with fear,
Gutting sales of the gas-guzzlers Henry held so dear,
So into the new geeko-friendly no-smoking atmosphere
Henry trotted out his Pinto, with its pertly kicked-up rear,
So cheeky, chic and cheerful- and so cheap to engineer.
His Pinto putting dents in imports sales elicited a grin,
But making a profit on compacts means making 'em thin,
So, skinnier welds here, there, replace heavy steel with tin;
Ford's salesmen lightly told customers 'take 'er out for a spin,'
Is emphasising gas mileage over driver safety such a sin?
In harness with rising gas prices, sales of the sippy Pinto rose,
In his boardroom see, along with his profits, how his smile grows?
Until a rash of memos brought about a wrinkling of Henry's nose;
It's safe to say a Pinto's economy is great, as far as gas milage goes
But in a tail-ender one is not safe, as any crash dummy knows.
Was it a question of saving lives or saving on the cash?
Placing a gas tank waaay back was more dumb than rash,
The Pinto was a pain in the ass when in a nose-to-tail smash;
Percolating Pintos were hotly looked at by Police, Fire and Crash-
Hank's cheap-ass petty penny ante profits tanked, and in a flash.
(Mockery aside, a case of money over humanity. Apparently, for the sake of a few nickels and dimes per vehicle in producing these bombs cars Ford could have redesigned and alleviated the problem. Corporate cost-cutting at its best/worst. Ford lost a court case and paid through the nose.)
‘For Sale, Ford Pinto, cool retro classic, original Fire Engine Red paint.’
Faith, Hope And Charity. (And more innocent than you would believe.)
It's amazing how many friendly faces you'll meet
On walking up the business end of Manchester Street,
But in these grim city streets every girl has her position,
Remember, the hard fact is these are gals with a mission.
Just once I'd like to take a stroll down town
Without returning home feeling brung down,
Having not been waylaid by some sharp-eyed girl
Offering you a deal that should make your hair curl.
But she'll rarely be alone, she's one of many
And each want to take you for a pretty penny,
All eyes looking for some flush fool to be played,
Best not chance a glance lest eye contact be made.
With batted eye and oh so practiced smile
One is sure to invite you to stop and chat awhile,
Any offer to engage in conversation- don't indulge
Even should her eye linger long on your trouser bulge.
Alas, this happened to me again today,
A new girl accosted me, embarrassing to say,
Kim approached, name tag pinned bold on chest,
I wanted none of her but... she pressed and pressed.
She wouldn't take 'No' for an answer from me,
These gals keep taking me for some kind of charity,
Every week the girls change, but the game's the same,
If you don't hand over your change you feel their shame.
Gals, why am I the Saint selected to fix Society's ills?
The mug from whom the milk of human kindness spills?
Gals, the way you reach out to me in the street is a crime,
Every week, faithfully I find you've taken me for my last dime!
See, Kim, I'm loose with my money, a fool I say!
Pater cut off my account, ordered me to stay away,
In my wealthy family I've always been the black sheep,
But he pays me a pitiful stipend, so my distance I'll keep.
Sorry, Kim, I cannot hope to fill your financial need;
Good luck in all your endeavours, I hope you succeed;
But after paying for my one poky room I'm mostly spent;
Ain't it a pity I was never extended my fathers endowment?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It's UNICEF this week, next week Leprosy Mission,
Donating to everyone is putting me in a poor position,
So, please, you gals with good intentions, should we meet
My charity stays at home, or you'll see me out in the street.
(On my being cheekily and cheerily- but legally- solicited by a well-dressed well-groomed well-meaning well-intentioned most engaging slick and professional young woman representing yet another needy charity yet again. I noticed that UNICEF was Kim and todays featured sad act. (What is it with all these peppy perky presumptuous lasses? I must just have the kind of face every girl preys for.)
Still, on turning 'em down I'm left feeling so cheap. Oh, I'd love to be able to willingly toss my hard-earned cash about but I just can't afford to sillily splash out willy-nilly.)
The Home fans had flocked here from miles around,
To Englands green and present Premier football ground,
All set to see England play winningly at Wembley,
All so happy together, in a gloriously riotous assembly.
All through the first half the crowd stood, up and singing,
By late on in the second half, down and hand-wringing,
Still hopefully singing- this time the lads would be victorious,
Ringing proud round the ground, loud if ultimately vainglorious.
Once more, as oft before, England failed the test,
Again, fair England, penalised into being second best,
As per tradition, opportunity and spot kicks missed,
But this national tragedy came with an extra kick twist.
The stunned crowd streamed from Wembley, sad, deflated,
Not singing 'Land Of Hope And Glory' as much anticipated,
Herded into their British Rail carriages, to sit in silent ponder;
Emptiness carried up to Goole, Hull, Halfwhistle and yonder.
Or to East or West,
But, everywhere, depressed,
Even in the Beautiful South-
Deeply down in the mouth.
Later, be it in the Albion, the Crown, Anchor or the Rising Sun,
Fans shared rounds with old mates, gathered in commiseration,
Next morning, wondering upon waking, shaking, with sore head
How much viral disappointment could they possibly have spread?
‘Want a beer when you’ve got nowt to cheer about- fancy a Corona?’
As Autumn's leavings disappear
Winter is almost here.
Time is long overdue to replace our heat pump of old,
It's begun to moan and groan, to grumble and wheeze...
As soon as we stepped over 'House Warmers' threshold
The fair Val appeared at our side, as quick as you please.
Full of Christmas-like cheer,
Words warm as Butterbeer.
Her easy manner, knowledge and patience had us sold,
We were both warmed and affected by her rare expertise,
She radiantly smiled while I reached deep in my billfold,
Seems fixing our heating nightmare would be a breeze...
Winter solstice drawing near,
Feel the frosty atmosphere?
'Nother long silent month gone, and has our hot case gone cold?
All calls to Val get left on 'hold', she's giving us the deep freeze,
Conversely Val's name is a constant hot topic in our household,
Faith and hope in fu-flaming Val is cooling, plunging by degrees.
‘And installation as quick as a flash, as fast as lightning.’
Love In Vain- Or, Vein.
Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein
Watched her hubby from the shoreline,
Alas, for the wild and stormy poet of note
'Twas not the time to be paddling a leaky boat.
It devastated his distraught young wife
When Percy Shelley sunk and lost his life,
So before Mary cremated her sweetheart
She took hold, held close that cold cold part.
A little large for a silver locket,
A bit too big for a wee dress pocket,
And far too gross to hold in her hand-
Best placed underneath the nightstand?
She kept his heart in her bedside drawer,
Not for her brief grief, no, it remained raw,
She kept it locked inside a heart-shaped box
Amongst her dainty hankies, smalls and socks.
At first this act of sweet spousal devotion
Seemed an endearingly darkly Romantic notion,
Till for even the hanky-dabbing Widow Mary Shelley
Percy became less lingering memory, more simply smelly.
(I commented on a blog, and that comment twisted its way into this... odd offering.)
(You wanna gun in Texas ? Write a cheque and it’s yours, no questions asked. You wanna vote? Whoa there- now Governor Abbott wants to cross-check you.)
Texas Hold 'em.
'We don't take kindly to restrictions here, Son,
Soon here in Texas ya'll can carry round a gun,
And then, Son, ya'll won't need no licence or permit,
Son, we cain't wait for Governor Abbott to confirm it.'
'Soon, Son, strapped to your hip-
A Colt for your personal protection
Within it, a lawfully fully loaded clip
Thanks to Governor Abbotts election.'
'Son, the Second 'Mendment is our God given Right,
Us rebels Republicans chafe against restrictive oversight,
Soon, Son ya'll be free to pack a pistol without a Doctors note-
Shoot, Son, in Texas it's easier gettin' a gun than gettin' to vote!'
'Son, once Abbot's doozy legislation's passed
Then he's on to checkin' out Voters Rights Time,
Then, Boy- if ya'll aim to cast your Democrat vote fast
Ya'll be stuck in lines longer than at Disney, Anaheim.'
Hush Her Mouth.
We'll hear no more from Liz Cheney,
Her outlook's been seen as wild and zany,
Her old conservative view seem quaintly odd,
Lord, it seems Liz can't quite believe Don is God?
Why, she doesn't hold Don in thrall!
Or accept Don never lost to Joe at all?
Nor does she think Don is all that great!?!
So the GOP boss will end this Cheney debate.
How can she contrarily continue to deny
The simple truth behind Don's big lie?
Why won't she grovel silent at his feet
And breath in the sour smell of deceit?
Don's lackey's know His will will not be thwarted,
Removing Liz is a process twisted and contorted,
But McCarthy and Co know how to toe Don's line,
All it takes is straight out lies and a lack of spine.
Still, McCarthy hears Don's word, so Mac acts,
He ain't one to deny Don's 'alternative facts,'
So, 'it's a bitch, Miz Liz, but you gotta go,
It's only a witch-hunt when Don says so.'
(A quick snide aside following the form of yesterday’s few lines.)
Dom and BoJo have lost the plot,
That terrible two make one sorry lot,
The old iron-clad brotherly bond is shot,
That once creepily friendship, now forgot,
Still mutually respectful- most definitely not!
Now they wouldn't share the same piss pot.
Another few lines- these two deserve a half-decent hearing.
Dominic and BoJo both realise
Their relationship has hit its demise,
Farewell twisted bonds, Old School ties-
Whatever Dominic accuses, Boris denies,
But who could you trust to believe whose lies?
This couldn't happen to two déclassé-er guys.
Dominic Cummings vicious nasty attack
Must trigger a quick Johnson come-back,
When two old besties start talking smack,
Once cosy Old Boy alliances begin to crack
Someone in Tory-Town is way out of whack.
C'mon, seriously old chaps- pot, kettle, black?