‘Hi, Neil Parish? Boris here; please hand your resignation and phone in. Now.’ Another stupid Tory MP brazenly seen to be doing the wrong thing.

Screen All Calls, Neil.

The fine folk of Teviton and Hoviton, down in Devon
Thought they lived in a slice of pure Southern heaven,
A quiet place where the salt of the earth simply dwell-
Now Neil Parish has blown the sweet illusion all to Hell.

For twelve years he'd toiled in the House to little regard,
A hack back bencher doing House work but doin' it hard,
Few call on him, rare are the times Neil's moved to stand,
He's usually left to ruminate on his phone, rapt in his hand.

He was found out in the House of Commons, watching porn,
Not alone, in the Roxy, in the dark with a box of hot popcorn?
Why, once again we see another Tory sat sad and contrite,
Offering up the best rushed apology he had time to write,
He knows he must live with this act for the rest of his life...
Which mightn't be long, once he's in the grip of his wife.

Once hubby is resigned and restrained within her four walls
Wifey might whip him a flip-top so he can answer his calls,
For hubby now a no-frills no-thrills Nokia surely suffices;
Not-so-smart Neil cannot be left to his phone (de)vices.

Come the Election, if Boris's Party Time culminates in a rout
Will House breeches help to get Blue members tossed out?


‘I seem to have an unhealthy attraction towards tractors. And I hope my trembling hand ain’t shaking too much.’
‘Now this, Sir, is a proper Pleasure Palace. Sit down, and PLEASE turn your phone OFF.’

©Obbverse.

Boris Johnson is resigned to have to apologise. A simple resignation would be… just better.

Party Time.

Boris knows he has to admit to his mistake,
Never been a thing he felt obligated  to make,
But given there's principles a PM's future at stake
He'll make his sad and sorry apology, for pity's sake.

Though well practiced,  Bo knows sincerity's hard to fake.

Oh, Boris Johnson, why don't you just resign?
Your blithe denials about 'a quick birthday wine'
Have resulted in the cops slapping you with a fine-
For you breaking your own rules, you pompous swine.

Your gullible public can't swallow that fatuous lie line.

See Boris front up and 'fess up to a minor mistake,
(Though Bo believes rules are made for him to break)
As a clear and transparent apology his is muddily opaque,
A strained 'sorry' comes as hard for him to say as us to take.

This steamin' hot mess Bo aims to pile on us is no birthday cake. 

Oh, Bonehead Johnson, you know it is just to resign,
Surely, even you must see your star has lost its shine?
Boris, dare you consider- God forbid- you are not divine?
There's talk of you and coups coming down the grapevine.

So go Bo- your Party contains more pricks than a porcupine.

‘Oi, polloi!- Boris Johnson, at your bumbling humble service.’

©Obbverse.

Just a frustrated note on- or to- the empty-headed asshats who fill whatever park they feel ably fits their needs.

(Free verse- not my fave- required for Chel Owens Terrible Poetry Contest: 'Bad Driving.')

Poor Parking Parable.

What a dazzlingly bright sizzler of a triple digit day
It was down at the Crucible Mall
What a joy it was to be beneath 
Cloudless azure skies
In a Midnight Blue Horizon with no
Fu...nctioning air-conditioning
And nary a park to be found within spitting
Distance of the Malls shady welcoming walls
Nope
Not one
Thanks to one selfish bast- parker
Who had left two half spaces on either side
Of the fat-wheeled Ford F150 parked athwart the middle line
Of the only two miserably designated 
Disabled car parks
Lolling in his idling 150 sat
A fat-as slack-faced cowboy
Hairy mitt draped on the wheel
Arctic cold cab wreathed in vape smoke
He paused but for a second
To chug down his sixth Bud
Before leaping agilely and
Lightly-
Lightly for such a heavy gutted hombre-
Onto the asphalt
Belched heavily
And strode back into the Booze Barn
For 'nother nourishing six-pack
No Disabled card on view
Nope 
Not hardly right
Or fu-
Fair but

Never mind.

After parking way out back in the back of beyond
Out in the furthest and farthest
Rarely traversed outer reaches of the
Chokka packed Car park
Far from the Mall and the madding crowd
I gamely
Sweated my way across
The shimmering tacky tarmac
Trekking towards the far off
Sliding-doored cold comfort of 
Krogers
My journey through Hades proved to be well worth it though!
Oh
So gratifying it was to see our invalid invalid
Looking fair fit to be tied
Getting roughly cuffed and arrested by someone
Healthily buffed in a well-stuffed XL black uniform
And
As a bonus
Our cow-pokes big-as truck getting all set
To get towed
I joined in the surrounding crowd
Watching the one-sided spectacle
Easing in beside
A finely groomed and elegantly attired
Elderly gent
'Another ass who believes it's his right to
Use up not just one
but two Disabled parks' he offered
Eyes hard as tempered steel
'Tis rare to see such justice playing out before our eyes'
I croaked agreeably in my parched cracked voice
Seems all about us most folks agreed
And as the baddest example
Of good driving I'd seen in quite a while
Had his ass hauled 
Into the back seat
Of his personally designated Cruiser
Hands behind his back
Everyone enthusiastically yet oddly waved him ta-ta's
All with both hands
But sans fingers
'Cept for middle digits
I bade the elderly gent a hearty good day
And walked 
Away
He went gladly off on his merry way
Whistling
His wheelchairs wheel
Making one hell of a deep impression 
Along the highly polished long long
Fords flanks
Which made for quite the racket too
But everyone in the vicinity
Who should have heard this
Had to have been deaf-finately Disabled

If not deaf
Blindly
Blissfully 
Smilingly unaware.

‘But Ocifer, I’m gonna light out soon as I’d loaded up more suds.’

 

©Obbverse.

Birthday boy Boris Johnson, the life and asshole of the party. Some surprise!

Birthday Bash For Boris.

(A tale of an honest work place mistake-
Staying a brilliant PM is no piece of cake.) 

Poor put-upon Boris, what a pickle he's now in,
Sweet wifey Carrie threw a birthday bash for him,
Just one teensy rum cake and ten jeroboams of gin,
Pity, coz cause for further celebration is growing slim.

Hateful face masks came off for a while-
Better to see Boris's boozy grateful smile .

Number 10's gained a reputation as a party address,
A place of broken bubbles, then long lingering regrets,
It's the latest party Bo will have left in a Right old mess,
Boris, your partying's over, here comes the cold sweats.

BoJo swears blue it was alllll work related-
Oh, we'll see, once Sue Gray has investigated.

Now, since some party pooper has called the Old Bill* in
Will Bo blow hard as usual, or lie low and shut his cakehole?
Everyone but Mr Magoo* can see BoJo's an unmasked villain-
A crim can't be in charge of number 10 or stay on the electoral roll.

*Old Bill; Brit slang for the police, the plod, the cops and rozzers.
**AKA Jacob Rees-Mogg; big fawning follower and fascist fan of Boris.

   ‘So, who cares about piddling rules?’

©Obbverse.

Boris Johnson; not your common or garden variety politician.

A Simple Sorry Apology From Of A Leader.

'It's not easy being Boris, Great Britains great leader-
My days are full of me busily sitting, lying, denying, cheating,
So it's little wonder at days end I sometimes need a
Moment to wind down with a wine or two at a work meeting.'

Even pig-headed Boris knows 'sorry' might not suffice,
He, poor sacrificial lamb, may have to bear the publics wrath,
Next time, Bo, keep the guests away, the champagne on ice
And, dumbass- don't try to lead us all down the garden path.

‘Hey, it’s all work work work behind the scenes at Number 10, you know.’

©Obbverse.

Mother Nature versus the nature of the business man.

Getting The Green Back.

Who recalls those (g)olden days when a mayor's word
Meant a promise given by His Worship would be kept?
Nowadays his Council consider this quaintly absurd,
As the old Burghers say, a silly and antiquated concept.

Back then when hereabouts was more village than town
The mayor and hired surveyor set out in horse and trap,
When well past the black stump* the two stepped down
And in a sun-dappled glade they surveyed the map...

The mayor could see a big future for his hamlet ahead,
The surveyor was there to draw his mark in the sand,
A green belt to encircle the soon-to-be-a-city's spread-
Long after the mayor had fallen these trees would stand.

But the young town came on in leaps and bounds,
Town houses swiftly replacing rural fields and streams,
Soon the rude city butted up against long sacred grounds,
Such an impediment to investors get-rich-quick schemes!

Builders gazed enviously upon the old swathe of green
But the latest mayor recalled promises he'd sworn to keep,
Told the investors this oasis must stay as it had always been-
Or, he might change his mind- but change don't come cheap.

Dis Honor and his noble Council convened in the Town Hall;
Was any behind-closed-doors decision ever so open and shut?
No mention of conservation blighted their conversation at all,
All voted 'Aye' to clear that wilderness, each took a hefty cut.

These days no mayor can afford to hold back time and tide,
Hereabouts into soulless assholes pockets cash readily flows,
and now brick-a-crap boxes litter the once quiet countryside,
On once verdant glades only the grey concrete jungle grows.

* The back of beyond, off in the wilderness, untouched by civilisation.        

'Irrepressible little blossom, ain't ya?'

©Obbverse.

Sometimes an unsolicited e-mail that should have been spammed must be seen to be believed.

Hurry! Buy now! Limited offer! A bathroom light that senses the presence of an incoming occupant!
(A product that left me wriggling uncomfortably.)

Embare assing.

When one wakes in the middle of the night
Seeking the privacy of the littlest room
Who needs a blinding beacon of light
To brighten the WCs closeting gloom?

In those wee wee hours when it becomes clear
That the time for holding on has long gone
Perhaps a loo sensor light is a bright idea-
But, please- a light that washes dimly on...

When I'm sat, weary, head downcast
Let the light hold a comforting glow,
Not have the intensity of a nuclear blast,
Or Pink Floyd's incandescent light show.

When cosseted in one's comfort station
Answering Mother Nature's insistent demands
I'm happy to sit in deep dark contemplation
Pondering, as time weighs heavy on my hands...

The tales Gran told of going, back in her day-
Then the outhouse was a dark unwelcoming place,
Only the moon above to guide you on your way-
When striking a match could blow up in your face.

I'm a common man, not blessed or graced
With a cultured eye or artists aesthetic soul
But it's well beyond all bounds of good taste
To see a light shining up from the toilet bowl.

Who needs their nether's bathed in a kaleidoscope
Of colour when sat in one's private repository?
Dignity has headed down a slippery slope
When one is expected to go in a blaze of glory.

Only a Millennial moron would design
An intrusive light show of your very own,
What dumbass thinks a spotlight should shine
On one when readying to assume the throne?

Who was the crack-pot half-ass half wit
Who came up with this senseless notion?
And to what movement does the sensor see fit
To respond to? One's first or second motion?   

'Let us be thankful this isn't a strobing or a probing light.'

 

©Obbverse.

Let’s celebrate 100 years since the end of a Great War. Happy anniversary?

One Great War After Another.

That first Great War lasted four long years
But twenty years on and we were back for more,
After six endless years and countless tears
We found, again, no-one wins any bloody war.

Can we, at long last
Learn from the mistakes of the past?
Will our idiotic leaders call to arms
Lose its patriotic charms?

Will we ever see our way
To not see our soldiers fade away?
Can we have a lasting peace?
Will wonders never cease?

Will Einstein be proved right?* 
Will we turn toward the so-bright light?
Will we be bathed in momentary glory
Before the world becomes our Purgatory?

The Third Great War should be brutally short-
Then eons of peace on earth, awash with flash-fried bones,
Till when we evolve enough for war to be fought
The inhumanity can continue with sticks and stones.

* Albie said (sic) 'Dunno what weapons World War Three will use, but for World War Four, they'll have to turn their hands to sticks and stones.' Cheery thought, is it not?

‘Not a grey cloud in the sky here at Camp Combustable, Nevada.’

©Obbverse.

How to change a winning prescription.

Not So Hot Shots.

There's many a well remunerated sports star
Who happily pushed their performance too far,
Like the 'likes' of Lance Armstrong and Flo Jo
Who saw nothin' wrong with more get up and go.

Two lab rats, quite happy to cheat be turbo induced,
A shot of dope gave 'em that extra performance boost,
When fame, glory and rich rewards are hard to resist
Why not buy into and prescribe the illegal drugs list?

There's nothin' a decent drug cheat cannot achieve
If you can just make the effort- to roll up your sleeve,
Given a bit of bribery you should escape detection,
Those days few athletes were averse to an injection.

But the times are a'changing, even for bad sports, 
Now elite athletes don't want to drop their shorts,
A few claim it's their Right to run pure and drug free
Yet have bought into the anti-Covid drug conspiracy.

Like the once Cavalier, now Brooklyn Nets Kyrie Irving
And Novak Djokovic who insists 'not what you're serving,'
No FDA vetted jab for these two- not even one simple prick,
Give these jackasses a drug choice- Ivermectin's their pick.

They only ask to freely play before their paying fans
Yet both blindly refuse to entertain vaccination plans,
So please, Novaxx and Kyrie, just take your free shot-
Let's see you on court, not caught up in some dumb plot.

©Obbverse.

Picking up the Yamaha; A minor riff on how Jimmy got the Blues.

The Blue Streak. (Alternatively, Poetic Licence.)

May I tell my short tale, of a spotty schoolboy?
Of Master James Bart Taylor, henceforth, young Jim;
Jimmy looked down on his present day with infinite joy,
Blowing out of sixteen candles would make a man of him.*

Yep, of all his sixteen birthdays
This would be callow Jimmy's best,
Because the law unequivocally says
At sixteen you can take your driving test.

The night before, a pimpled boy bereft of sense,
By morning  a supposedly mature man of sixteen,
And permitted to retain his full motorcycle licence
(Till he'd lose it amateurishly emulating Barry Sheene.)*

By sixteen Jim found school had left him far behind,
His relieved tutors believed he'd gone as far as he could,
His Ma figured too many facts weighed down her boy's mind,
Preferring to put his failures down to him being 'misunderstood.'*

Free from the insurmountable shackles of book learning
Jim trundled off to his brand new job on his old push bike,
The hours between 8 till 4 he'd now spend profitably earning,
Now no more hidings from testy teachers, no more mutual dislike.

But Jim learnt some harsh lessons along with his trade-
His boss seemed hellbent on riding him into the ground,
Each instruction he imparted became an oath-laden tirade-
The bosses whipping boy, apprenticed, contractually bound.

On Friday arvo Jim was first in line by the factory door,
A week of 'prentice wages burning a hole in his ass pocket,
His boss, watching the time clock, ticking off slowly toward four,
Jim watched one certain face too,  fighting the temptation to clock it.

Jimmy had wheedled a loan from his sweet Mum,
His Pa was a hard 'un, Ma more soft headed hearted,
Jim swore he'd pay her back (that day has yet to come,)
Two Taylor-made fools and their money were soon parted.

At last, cometh the hour, goeth the man,
Jim Lad stepped out of the dark satanic mill,
Down the street his engineer booted feet lightly ran,
For tonight's the night young Jimmy would buy a thrill.*

Literally down a dark road was a two-wheel dealer
Renowned (for miles all round) as 'Mr Fair and Square,'
Though years ago the name synonymous with 'horse stealer,'
'Tis oft said 'a man of honour in the Bike Biz is something rare.'

Dim Jim strode into the brightly lit showroom;
At his desk sat Mr McLeery, fingers idly drumming,
On his smoothly malign face a Cheshire grin began to bloom,
Things were lookin' up when Tom looked up and saw Jim coming.
 
McLeery stood up and straightened his tie,
Slid oilily over to Jim, unctuously shook his hand,
Appraising poor Jim with a practiced avaricious eye...
Tommy knew the best he could extort was half a grand.

He took Jim's arm and gently led him away
From the chromed behemoths in the front row-
The big bad orange and black hog heaven display-
For could juvenile Jim kick over a Harley? No show.

McLeery steered Jim towards the smaller cheaper fare,
'May I suggest a new machine for the discerning learner?'
Said he, moving to a dark corner,  far from the spotlights glare
Where sat a tinny tiny two-stroke buzzy blue Yamaha rice-burner.

Trusty Tommy, so full of charm,
With sales patter that wouldn't quit,
Light on the facts, heavy on the smarm,
All mere empty words, yet all so full of it.

Tom reached for a hire purchase agreement
Then when Jim said he'd pay, 'cash on the nail,'
In a trice into Tommy's sweaty palm the cash went-
No need to pay income tax on this quick Friday sale.

With just the official bill of sale left to write up
Tom kindly offered James a celebratory cigarillo;
That's when casual smoker Jim began to really light up;
Henceforth from bike and bloke smoke constantly did billow.

So Jimmy emerged from Tommy's, clutching the keys
Of Yamaha's latest uprated state-of-the-art two stroke,
The glee in his naive eyes matched by those of McLeery's,
Both ecstatic to see Jimmy wreathed in clouds of blue smoke.

In denim jacket 'n' jeans 'n' brand-new blue crash helmet
Jimmy revved that engine sky high and dumped the clutch,
Tom patted his pocket, contents meaning Jim owed him no debt-
So Jim writing himself and his new bike off mattered not overmuch.

Soon Jim became a legend 'round our neighbourhood,
Some called the half-man half-machine 'The Blue Streak,'
Obviously our young ner'er-do-well would come to no good,
The betting was two to one on Jim just getting through the week.

... Just after four, faintly, if the  air was still,
Or louder if the breeze drew down from the North
Came the sound of a Yamaha wrung out, loud and shrill
As the Kamikaze Kid blazed down the alley and sallied forth.

Past the railway station, gas works dead(?) ahead,
Down Moorhouse Ave, engine wound up to the max,
Change gear, full throttle, mill wailing deep into the red,
Up over the rail-bridge, back to the wrong side o' the tracks.

Flying under the radar,  green traffic light fixed in his gaze-
Though an amber change gave no cause for pause nor braking,
Even seeing red rarely stopped our fly boy in his blue smoked haze-
Rare was the brave pillion rider who'd share Jim's grave undertaking.

My one and only pillion ride came as a nasty shock,
Jim had dropped by to show off it off, proud as punch
With an invitation to take a 'quick spin 'round the block,'
Blithely I leapt aboard, dumbly ignored my growing hunch.

Hey, I was just a silly schoolboy, a gauche and simple fool,
In baggy short pants, grey saggy socks, frayed taggy sweater,
The bike smoking away, Jim puffing too, the epitome of 'not Kool,'
Even then, though a bumbling student, I should have known better.*

It was the ride you pray only happens once in a lifetime,
Perched behind Jim, above the Yamaha's tortured whine,
Still the revs and my blood pressure continued their climb,
Even on the red line the Yammy's scream couldn't top mine.*

The little Polaris Blue Yamaha flew like a missile
Jimmy's hand holding the throttle in a death grip, 
Between my wails I could hear Jim's serene whistle-
Yes, the dope was smokin' more than the Kool filter tip.

When he slid to a skidding halt I tearily dismounted,
That he was one hell of a rider, proved beyond dispute,
As his travelling companion I could no longer be counted,
His rides down the highway to hell would be a solo pursuit.*

I know I'm no great scholar but even I can learn,
Ain't no question this folly was one I'd ever repeat,
The shameful drips on my cheeks a cause for concern-
Another mile behind Jim and I'd slip and slide off the seat.

Jim's other pursuit gave his abused bike brief respite,
Most nights, outside some cinema the Yam sat steaming
While Jim was sat in the dark flea-pit, far away eyes alight,
Indulging his galactically far far away-from-reality dreaming.*

Incessantly Jim kept yammering on about it;
He truly believed he'd make a great movie star,
Casting an eye over him I truthfully said 'I doubt it;'
Let's face it, audiences can only suspend belief so far.

Yet Jim held his unprepossessing self in high regard!
His oil-slick of greasy hair, sideburns thin and patchy,
His knobbly noble nosed and pimply visage only marred
By a cartoonish bumfluff beard, obviously itchy and scratchy.

Jimmy was convinced he would be the next Tom Cruise,
But one look in the mirror and even he had to see the trouble,
Though he had the slight talents height to fill Tiny Tom's shoes
His ugly mug works best as his stand-in or beat-up stunt double.

Anyway, moving on from Fantasyland
It's time to get Jim's story back on track;
Showbiz sure hadn't turned out as he'd planned;
So many extra casting calls, not a single call back...

But on 'maturing' two other things were fancied by Jim,
Getting ahold of a fast and loose woman and a fancy car!
Jim's chances getting his mitts on the first were mighty slim,
His heavy grip got nothing hot but the clutch of his Yamaha.*

So Jim hired a car, asked a girl out, and she accepted!
This encounter left he and she both bitterly disappointed,
She, being a good time girl, Jim went further than expected,
But back seat Beetle bonking needs both to be double-jointed. 

Jim wanted to go faster but lacked the horsepower,
The high handlebars made his frenzied Fifty go slower,
For Speed Freak Jim they slowed him by five miles an hour,
Jim had to get his skinny ass low and his handlebars lower.

So he adjusted his bars in his own idiot-synchratic manner,
Since James was not only tight fisted he was also ham-fisted
He lowered his 'bars with a whacking great adjustable spanner,
His method guaranteeing him shot bolts and precious nuts twisted.

Jimmy liked the look of the low Cafe Racers crouch
But it's sure a physically uncomfortable position to adopt,
Panic braking resulted in petrol tank meeting tender pouch,
Then Jim felt real regret on stopping with balls 'bars dropped. 

Ouch.

Flogging every Japanese horse into the ground,
Flat out on the tank to stay sleek and streamlined,
Tucked down in a racing crouch, homeward bound
leaving poor lil' old ladies he flashed past far behind.*

It's a wonder Jimmy didn't cause some lady to faint,
Bring on a hot flush at least, at worst a heart attack,
Many an old biddy he passed saw cause for complaint,
Giving 'em the bums rush, disappearing at a fair crack.

Our so-special speed racer, so young and fearless,
Blithely cutting blind corners, dumbly tempting fate,
James was all alone in thinking his riding was peerless,
His friends lived in hope he'd learn before 'twas too late.

Young Jim was living way too fast,
Not a lick o' sense, no restraint at all,
We knew Jim's tomfoolery couldn't last,
But he kept ridin' high, till come the Fall...

One's luck runs out when pushed too far,
One Sunday that fateful day came to pass,
In the form of a dowager driving a dodgy car,
Your typical little old lady off to morning Mass.

Clocking along at twenty-five miles an hour
With bashed ol' Bible and the Lord by her side,
So far past youth's foolish first flush and flower-
The kind of Sunday driver even Christ can't abide.

Atop the parcel shelf peered a plastic Virgin Mary,
A discreet bumper sticker proclaimed 'Jesus Is Lord,'
And, looking as ill-placed as a stripper in a monastery
A wobbly bobble-headed Jesus desecrated the dashboard.

From the rear view mirror a crucifix swung,
From the stereo came a swelling celestial choir,
Off in the distance the basilica bell dolorously rung
As up over the overpass Jimmy came blazing, eyes afire.

Our Lady peered myopically through the windscreen,
Her radio turned up to eleven, pre-set on Songs of Praise,
Not seeing or hearing a fast approaching wanna-be James Dean,
But then, the ol' Dodge and her eyesight had both seen better days.*

Jim wondered on which side to overtake
Just as our matron reached her destination-
Jim taking the outside line proved a big mistake-
God knows why she turned in without indication?

I was sat astride my 3-speed by the corner shop
So I'd heard Jim's Yamaha approach at full steam,
I saw the cars slow turn, saw the Yamaha's sudden stop,
I saw Jimmy fly overhead, heard his high falsetto scream.*

With car and motorcycle in Mutual collision
Immutable forces continue, as one must expect,
Before the old dear unfolded an unearthly vision;
A soon-to-be earthbound Unidentified Flying Object.

Helpless to help I could but painfully watch;
He missed the lamp post- not the six-foot fence,
Right hand flailed at a paling, left flew to his crotch,
In just one fluid motion our gymnast went to the Gents.

His  lil' blue Yamaha bounced down the road
The foot-pegs and handlebars showering sparks,
Eyes two sorrowful pools from which tears flowed,
Poor Jim surveyed the carnage amidst the skid marks.

From out of the Dodge a pale old lady emerged,
Baby blue eyes wide as saucers, hands all a'flutter,
She gazed up on High hoping her sins might be purged,
Saw Jim laid out on the ground and chucked up in the gutter.*

His flying visit had left a hell of an impression,
A helmet shaped hole dimpled the Dodge's roof,
On his face his usual dazed and confused expression-
I guess God simply makes young numbskulls bulletproof.*

He watched the flames consume the love of his life,
Winced as the gas tanks cherry glow looked set to blow,
The climactic Bang! was the last turn of the oriental knife,
For our Last Samurai, nothing left but the fading afterglow.*

Poor Romeo is bleeding, all cuts, gravel rash and grazes,
Both blue eyes black, toothsome smile gone, a bloodied nose,
Dodgy driver wondered if she, like the bike, might be going to blazes 
While Jim mushily moaned for his Yamaha or his Mama, Gawd knows.*

I held tight his right hand till the ambulance came,
Left the sorry sobbing matron to wetly hold his other,
They talked of Insurance, she agreed to share the blame
After much hand-wringing and prayers to the Virgin Mother.

Then did I see her jumpy Jesus shake its head?
Knowing He has to forgive us all, even those inept?
The fools who simply go where angels fear to tread?
And, I swear, for one miraculous moment, Jesus wept.

                      - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Later, as he hopped out of hospital, his foot in a cast
Jimmy told me of the bright light he'd momentarily seen,
Jim swore he had seen his whole unholy life go flashing past;
The agnostic in me believes in heavy concussion and morphine.


*If you got this far and wondered WTF the * is for, there's at least a dozen well known song titles thrown in. If you are so moved, dig 'em out. Plus two or three that are not well known, but hey, it's my post, so... answers, if you can be bothered, beneath Mr Jesus, below.  
Dashboard Jesus
'Straight outta the King James version.'





Song in order; Sixteen Candles; The Crests / The Night Before; The Beatles / Misunderstood- (Sorry, this one you'll only get that if you're a fan of Wilco)/ Tonights the Night; Rod Stewart / I Should Have Known Better; The Beatles / Once In A Lifetime; Talking Heads / Highway To Hell; AC/DC / Faraway Eyes; Rolling Stones  / Fast And Loose; Motorhead / Homeward Bound; Simon and Garfunkel / James Dean; Daniel Bedingfield / 3 Speed; Eels (as a fan I must slip in an Eels number)/ Baby Blue; Badfinger / Bulletproof; La Roux/  Afterglow, Ed Sheeran; (or the Small Faces) / Romeo is Bleeding; Tom Waits. 

©Obbverse