Boris’s Bed-time Story.
Boris is in our prayers and in our thoughts,
I do so hope Boris recovers from his nasty scare,
He’s feverishly chatting away, according to reports,
Swearing he’ll somehow survive National Health care.
Boris doesn’t like being in bed when he’s out of sorts,
Whether he’s feeling up or better is not the public’s affair,
Boy, Bojo has been a bit of a wag when it comes to bed sports
But now is the time to change his wayward ways- and underwear.
©Obbverse
Heavy On The Irony.
It’s developed into a sobering, if slightly sick story
For Boris, our weird wonderful and wiggy top Tory,
He, who’d dismissed this virus with a toss of his hair,
Waving away silly concerns and germs with a jocular air.
But now Boris cannot shake off this snotty cold,
Today Boris must simply shut up and do as he’s told,
‘Must it be that Hospital?’ he whines to his physician-
For Boris it’s going to be an awkward public admission.
His treatment causes him humiliation and distress,
A bad patient’s view of the inner workings of the NHS,
It’s most disconcerting to discover some common blight
Afflicts even those so blindingly bleedingly obviously Right.
©Obbverse
Losing It.
Today I woke to a morning bright and crisp and clear
Then I felt my sunny autumnal smile freeze then disappear,
Daylight Savings Day in Fall’s a dark day I’ve come to hate,
A long brunch, dinner at four, tucked up in bed at eight!
In summertime every second saved- warmly enjoyed,
Beers, barbecues, every hour spent leisurely employed,
But when them leaves fall and long days grow short
I regret not saving for a rainy day, a last sunny resort.
All Sunday is a haze, spent wondering if I’ve woken,
Wondering if I’ve cat-napped, if that Fitbit’s broken?
What a waste of time, one lousy hour of morning light
Exchanged for a far longer hour of dark cold winters night.
©Obbverse
Wake Up Call.
It’s a dark day behind the black door at 10 Downing street,
Boris’s short tenure here isn’t going quite as he’d planned-
From victory over Brexit and savouring Labours defeat
To solitary confinement in the best address in the land.
He can’t simply shamble outdoors, he can’t meet or greet,
Stuck in bed, sat at home at the doctors express command,
His tousled look looks too real, with his pale face white as a sheet?
Nah, not even his (gl)amorous girlfriend wants to take his… hand.
©Obbverse
Buck Up Chuck.
Be you rich man, poor man, beggar man or thief
This common coronavirus’ virulence beggars belief,
Now poor Prince Charles, perpetual king in waiting
Lies in the royal bed chamber, genteelly expectorating
Into his hand-woven silken Union Jack of a handkerchief.
©Obbverse
Pay Dirt.
This all started just like a touch of common flu-
Nothing a president couldn’t power through,
But then people sickened, they started to cough,
Took to their sick beds, and, worse, sick days off.
Soon the busy president made it crystal clear-
News of a pandemic he did not wish to hear,
No way would he let his ‘Merica shut up shop,
A stalled economy- why, life might as well stop!
Now for this profit president, suddenly so much is at stake,
Wow, now see him go, (though he was slow on the uptake,)
Don now tells everyone, stay a healthy six feet apart-
Pity he’s given the virus a GreaT big flying head start.
But he’s never been a man renowned for his patience,
Now the prez wants to fast-track this testing of patients,
Donald demands an overnight cure for this dark disease-
Suddenly there’s a light at the end of the tunnel only he sees.
His brilliant plan B is to wish and pray this illness away,
He’s aiming to have the churches packed in on Easter day,
Some brave Bishop please tell him that would be a blunder,
Ironically, stories of resurrection might put one six feet under.
©Obbverse
Two perspectives.
His view.
It’s all bad news,
Unconfined doom and gloom,
It’s all greys and blues,
Tucked up in my tiny room.
Her view.
Isn’t life just fine,
Isn’t life too rich?
Corona’s picked up Harv Weinstein;
Harvey, is not karma a bitch?
©Obbverse
