Category Archives: satire

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.

The President sees Joe Biden throw his hat in the ring and turns on a bit of the old charm. Don just won’t respect his elders, cheeky impetuous youth that he is.

Kidult.

Don says he’s vibrant, strong and young,
He modestly stated this in his self -critique
Earlier this week.

To this childish delusion Don has long clung,
Yet most view our old boy as past his peak,
Practically, an antique.

Don has his guilt-edged golden tongue
Deeply, firmly wedged in his- cheek.
So to speak.

Manchester United V Everton; A tough to swallow result for us poor Devils.

Red-eyed And Blue. (Sorry Wilco, I appropriated your title.)

Manchester United versus Everton?
The trip to Goodison should be a good one;
This is one Scouse team the Devils can beat,
Ah, downing those Toffees will taste sooo sweet.

But the game did not go United or Ole’s way,
The Reds ‘play’ left Ole lookin’ old and grey,
This four goal loss leaves poor Ole ashen faced
And Red faced Mancunians with a bitter taste.

 

Having time off at Easter allows one to ponder the imponderables of this world. Time to get damn well creative!

Scintilla Of Truth.

There’s a tale to tell behind your Easter holiday,
So linger a moment, pull up a pew and listen, pray,
They say Jesus died for our sins, hung up on a cross-
But on the instructions of his Godfather boss?

Apparently, once a sinfully high price was paid
Into a stone cold cave the good Son was laid,
He was dead to rights, a good Roman doctor swore,
But wait- there’s more of this fantastical tale in store.

The script sure doesn’t tail off to the dead end one expects;
There’s life in the old crypt, according to the ancient texts;
Come Sunday, Christ’s up and kicking, would you believe?
Simply a bloody miracle, according to the blessedly naive.

So, thank God (and His offspring) for making the sacrifice
But can this damned fellow follow Your books good advice?
Well, again this Easter, back on a hard bench I’ll be found,
Down at the Crown, sinning, getting in another round.

Notre Dame, you’ll be the ruination of me. Consider this a rather un-PC silly and frivolous french folly.

Merde Feu.

What a damnable shame,
Seeing grand old Notre Dame
Fired up and aflame.

Due to the fire
The ol’ Dame does require
A bigger better spire.

When the roof fell
It left Gods glorious citadel
Blazing like merry Hell.

With the roofs falling
The conflagration became, frankly appalling,
For the French, galling.

Above the gathering crowd
Arose a bitter Gauloises cloud-
Smoking oughtn’t be allowed.

One man, eyes a’stinging,
Amongst klaxons blaring, bells a’ringing,
Stands hunched, hands a’wringing.

It is better to have loved and lost, some do say. I say, ‘yeah, right.’

Anniversary Blues.

Sometimes it’s the simple little things;
The way a new sprung sparrow witlessly sings,
Now, what a hollow feeling that birdsong brings
And dark thoughts of a sunny day and wedding rings.

…On the beach, on the sand,
A gleam of gold on her left hand,
A joyous time for our happy band,
And did we not say ‘ain’t love grand?’

Of one thing we two were sure,
Our love was unadulterated and pure,
For evermore she’d be my one amour,
Our love was truly bound to endure.

Winter came, left me chilled to the core,
The cold I hold in my heart has yet to thaw,
The view we’d shared, of that golden shore
Offers me not warmth nor comfort anymore.

It might be the sight of a gull wheeling on high,
A touch of white, up in a clear bright blue empty sky,
Down here I’m alone to hear its stupid senseless cry
Cruelly tail off in the wind, to drift, to fade, to die.