Last weekend of the Fall. Tuck in to that turkey, winter is a’coming.

Takeaways From Thanksgiving.

It's the family tradition, every Thanksgiving Day,
The clan all gathers here come near, come far away,
Holding hands, around the turkey together they pray.

Every year
Our near
And dear.

Meet, greet,
Turkey meat,
Leave, replete.

Well fed,
Heavy head,
Goodwill spread.

Next year there will be less left to give thanks-
The Lord alone knows why He's thinned the ranks;
It's sad and lonely scanning these photos, seeing blanks. 

 
(Not in the best taste after a hearty Covid Thanksgiving get-together, I know.)


What’s cooking, or brewing here?

©Obbverse.

‘An Alaska Airlines plane struck a brown bear on landing at Yakutat Airport.’ Now there’s a headline ripe for a satiric take off!

Living The Wild Life?

I'll never again fly Alaskan Air,
Not if you made me a millionaire,
If the flight alone wasn't a nightmare
The crappy landing was too much to bear.

Dicey icy touchdowns in the middle of nowhere?
Alaskan Airlines happy landings are mighty rare,
But there was nothing on that safety card to prepare
Us for seeing a bear using a runway as a thoroughfare.

So I'll be demanding a total refund on my fare,
Plus costs for trauma, shock and new underwear,
And could we spare a thought for that gristly bear?
A wing ding of a departure; poor bear hadn't a prayer.
                       
                  -------------------------------------

Wanna make our hero an anti-hero?
Try the four lines below as the opening verse.

The wife's nagging drove me to despair,
There are no burning embers lingering there,
So I hooked up and lit out with the air-headed au pair
But red-blooded animal behaviour crushed our holiday affair.

©Obbverse

Peter Sutcliffe, The Yorkshire Ripper dies in custody. Will Peter be missed? Don’t hold your breath, Pete.

Say A Spittle Word?

Today we're here to see Pete Sutcliffe go west,
The charitable say 'God only takes the very best,'
So, before someone sets down this thorny wreath
Who wants to pay tribute, before Pete's laid beneath?
     Or toss a clod on the casket, as per popular request?

Let us pray in the hope Pete has a long uneasy rest
In his interminable internment as Lucifer's house guest,
There's not a welcoming devilish smile, merely clenched teeth;
Pete promised the devil his due, but Pete had nought to bequeath.
     Poor Devil, getting stuck with an ass soul he forgot he possessed.

©Obbverse

Counting down the days till Christmas… and beyond. Somehow it kinda feels like holidays already.

Best Presents EVER.

We'll non-too-soon be seeing the end of Trump/Pence
Although Donald insists on living in the past tense,
His denying of fact, lack of tact and simple common sense
Means Don's childish tanTrumps still cause offence.

Forget fighting Covid, Don's focusing on firing off viral comments
And fragging his frazzled looking Secretary of Defence,
Don has sworn- loudly- he'll not spare one single donors expense
On recounting and courting his Supreme justice nonsense.

So though it's early, let's now let our Thanksgivings commence,
On till Christmas Eve fill the air with carols, joy and frankincense,
Then roll on January, when ends a reign of dumb ignorance,
Then we can all look forward to cool calm and quiet competence.




©Obbverse


	

A frosty Fall day chills the cold empty echoing floors of the White House. Perfect for Happy Feet!

Last Do-si-doh! For Don.

My old Grampap used to dance up a storm,
Pops needed no invitation to get up and perform,
A proper Yankee Doodle dandy life-long Democrat,
He'd be on his twinkling toes at the drop of a top hat.

It was only after Trump waltzed in four years back
Pappy hung his tuxedo, hat and cane on the hat rack,
Grampa knew he'd not be smiling or singin' in the rain
Till that bull in a china shop slipped down the porcelain.

No more doin' the Hand Jive complete with back flip,
No more twistin' by the pool, risking poppin' out a hip,
The best moon walker I'd seen besides Michael Jackson-
Pretty damn fly for a white-haired geriatric Anglo Saxon.

Pops thought his tap shoes and he were past their best,
Now was the time to reminisce and wait for eternal rest,
He set his La-Z-Boy to decline, settled down to Fred Astaire;
Seeing Trump's goose miss-steps made his bed a pit of despair.

Old Granpop wasn't up to doing the Hustle any more,
More of a desperate shuffle towards the bathroom door,
Nothing outside an atom bomb can get him up and about,
He was just like Michael Flatley, all crapped and tapped out.

For four long years poor Pop barely busted a move at all;
Purely pitiful to watch a once Great Man's decline and fall,
It pained Pop seeing Dancing Star Don waltz tango and foxtrot
Effortlessly over democracy, to the stirring soundtrack of Fox rot.

But, come a day of judgement, and before a live audience-
Which star duo would win... Joe/Kam or Dunce/Subservience?
Till on the fifth day of drama, before which Pop avidly sat glued
Finally the vote was in, and left Donny feeling lost- and screwed .

Gramps lifted up his blanket, sat on the edge of his seat
Smiled, seeing Don getting his numb ass kicked by two left feet
As Don rants and starts filling in injunctions (and his underpants)
We're truly privileged to see Granpa's gleefully exuberant Riverdance.

(Check out the odd tired musical reference in there? I'm exhausted, but still dancing on air.)

Halloween; is it a crime against inhumanity? Food for thought.

What A Hollow Halloween.

Being the prize pick of the pumpkin patch
Come November comes with a nasty catch,
Being soft and tender, sweet as pumpkin pie
Don't mean Jack when Halloween is nigh.

Once the father came to weigh up his choice
Being top o' the crop gave me no cause to rejoice
But 'twas only when the mother cut me from the vine
This prime pumpkin knew it was the end of the line.

So this orange squash's future's turned to soup,
It cuts me up to see me reduced, scoop by scoop
Until I'm left, a grinning rictus of an empty shell;
Does my tasteless tale turn your insides as well?
Pure pulp fiction.

Need justice, and now? Short a Supreme Court judge? Amy is now the answer to your prayers.

Blindingly Quick Justice.

Inside the Church Of  Jesus's Sacred Bleeding Heart
Amy Coney Barrett zips straight past the 'Thou Art,'
'Lord, I feel most humbled that Trump has faith in me,
That sweet man must be a saint, I'm sure You'd agree?'

From up on high only an eternally long silence came;
Christ above, could You believe her preposterous claim?
Still, Amy smiled sweetly at the words He had left unsaid,
Soon she knew she'd hear his oh so many voices in her head.

God, how she'd looked forward to rising to her Supreme position,
To smite Dem(s) who'd made her appointment a bloody inquisition,
'Must they think I'm an evil witch, not Just a Wholly Catholic mother
Who will judge 'em badly, with gavel in one hand, rosary in the other?'

Damn Dems think there's no place for religion in politics-
That she'll make binding judgements clinging to a crucifix?
All Democrats are faithless sinners, but what hurts the most
Is they think she'll run everything by Father, Son and Holy Ghost!

Amy promises to keep her judgements down-to-earth and fair...
But, if the Right proves wrong, will she turn to the Left, or prayer?
Surely the ungodly understand that she be beholden to no mortal man?
Except- obviously!- to the old white wizened one wandering the Vatican?

Halloween- Hey kids, aren’t some older people so mean spirited?

Night Of The Gibbering Dread.

We're fast approaching October thirty-first
When once again good folk will be cursed
By that gnawing feeling of impending dread
As the spirit of gluttony raises its ugly head.

'Twill be the night of Halloween
When every pre-adolescent 'tween
Comes, unbidden, a'rapping at your door-
That ain't the kinda rap you can ignore.

They'll demand a trick or treat,
The trick is- give 'em all they can eat,
So dole out the candies from the bowl,
Better being poor than have an empty soul.

Robotically dish it out and don't dare ask
What sweet child is hiding 'neath that mask?
Just kindly smile while puttin' on your happy face
And pray the overladen urchins don't egg your place.

Watch those impish wee scamps stagger to the gate
Arms trembling to contain the confectionery's weight,
Shake my head and muse 'that fifty bucks didn't go far,'
Damn kids took a bowl full of sugar but left the gate ajar.

Prompt at midnight switch off the porch light-
Witching hour is done, Children Of The Night,
So, all good but poor souls, sit back and enjoy the hush,
Soon 'nough you'll hear some sick kids full-on sugar rush flush.
This started as an entry for Chel Owens A Mused poetry contest but went waaay over 
the word limit.  

	

President, Professor and statesman Donald J. Trump, an actual medical marvel.

President Trump, Resident Shaman. 

Donald's re-election plans were looking sick
So he drugged out his old tired but trusty trick,
Doctor Don's patented cure is downright cruel;
Donny decides Doctor Fauci must play the fool.

He don't mince words with his double dealings,
Don sure don't believe in masking his feelings,
Good Doctor Fauci has been hung out to dry,
Guess who Donny's designated as his fall guy?

Now Don says all Doctor Fauci's sick talk is phony?
Great Medicine Man Don knows better than Tony?
Tony's just another discarded discredited Trump minion?
Would you stake your your life on witch doctors opinion?

It’s not easy getting into a Militia mans head- and when you do it leaves you queasy.

(A few thoughts from a member of Michigans moronic Militia while waiting on a lawyer.)

Just A Zealous Guy.

We can't have mobs roaming, owning the streets
Upsetting our noble brave boys in blue-
Unless they're brave knights wearing white sheets
Gathered there to protect the Right and true.

Unlike the good ol' ones these days are passing strange,
I see the sea change, it's blowin' a gale,
Seeing foreign faces not welcome in my home on the range,
They leave me looking a whiter shade of pale.

I don't want to hear or see all the signs of the times-
But I do hate to see Democrats legally elected,
I do believe in Mr Trumps brave assertion of ballot crimes
And that our Confederate flag is horribly disrespected.

I believe nowadays we hear too much colourful chatter,
I believe some folks just best shut their mouth,
I can't help but take a dim view of Black Lives Matter,
This proud North Michigan boy sez 'Go back South.'

So, since the law abiding Michigan voters don't know no better
And our redneck misogynistic feelings she's assaulting 
We're gonna go get Governor Gretchen, leave a ransom letter;
Surely our founding fathers wouldn't call this revolting?

Strange, now I'm down in lockdown but atop the FBIs hot list
Yet I'm Right and white, so it all feels grossly unfair,
I'm feeling uneasy about getting stuck in a cell with a real terrorist,
This could be this sad-ass Aryans worst nightmare.



©Obbverse





As a bit of silly fun there’s four song titles tossed into this. Artists are Bing Crosby (plus many others) Procol Harum, Harry Styles, Pug Jelly. If you’re bored, go figure. (Yes, Bonny Brian, a blatant musical rip-off; I feel no guilt…)