Lawyers Never Lack In Appeal.
Derek Chauvin's poor loser of a lawyer is now saying
Many more legal loopholes avenues are worth persuing,
This lifetime sentence is worth spending time on delaying-
(The tricky part remains that nine minutes of painful viewing.)
Monetarily it might cost him- a lot,
And it's bound to take mighty long,
But Derek's lawyer's in a tight spot
So count him in to right your wrong!
The real appeal of our untimely appeal is it will take a pile while,
Buying time to blame Floyd's death on 'unhappy happenstance?'
'So we, Derek's defence, demand another long drawn-out trial!'
(Say Counsellor, when will George Floyd get a second chance?)
Half Cocked Excuse.
A police patrol pulled over Daunte Wright-
For those who Protect and Serve us right-
Well trained long serving front line cops-
The latest of many routine traffic stops.
But this young man tried to break free,
Now, why would a young black man flee?
When Minneapolis's finest uphold the code?
Where George Floyd died, just down the road?
But a long serving cop stopped him!
A quick blast of Taser from Officer Kim!
Umm, somehow she pulled a gun not a Taser,
A mystifying mistake that continues to amaze her.
Now Officer Kim hides behind the scenes, gone on leave,
Daunte is gone too, leaving his family to openly grieve,
Kim's sheltered and protected behind the Blue enclave
But Daunte takes her mistake to his cold lonely grave.
(Little humour in my offering today. Apparently Officers put their Tasers on their less favoured side. So when they whip out their weapons they won't mix up the Taser with the gun. Wouldn't wanna confuse those two, would one? And surely a good cop knows wrong from right, left from right? Or am I naively mistaken in that belief too?)
Ninety-nine- A Fair Old Innings.
For good old Phil it's the end of the line,
Departing life's game stuck on ninety-nine,
What a long and Commowealthy life it's been
Standing mostly quietly in the shadow of his Queen.
The Duke was at his best standing square-jawed,
Stoic, as Liz spoke and the folk listened in, awed,
On the other hand, when asked to share a thought
Her speech writers advised Phil to just keep it short.
He's stood by, if not silently, steadfast and loyally,
On the odd occasion, dropped himself in it royally,
Liz's Phil has been known for many an un-PC remark
But then the Prince has been 'round as long as the ark.
Leaving just shy of a 100 must cause him some regret,
There's a letter from the Palace he didn't quite get,
After seventy years of living a rich and Royal life
Phil won't get a 100 Club Card from the wife.
Phil said the odd gaffe, spoke his mind, but he was one of a kind.
Straight To The Heart.
I've got my rights!!!
To my free speech,
I got my rights
You don't dare breach.
I've got my rights!!!
I don't gotta mask,
I got my rights
So don't dare ask.
I've got my rights!!!
To not be vaccined,
I got my rights-
Freedum won't be quarantined!
I've got my rights!!!
To cling to history,
I got my rights
To love Robert E. Lee.
I've got my rights!!!
They're etched in stone,
I got my rights
Leave my statues alone.
I've got my rights!!!
To wave my flag,
I've got my rights
To salute Braxton Bragg.
I've got my rights!!!
To be anti-vax,
I got my rights
To twist the facts.
I've got my rights!!!
So hold your breath,
I've got my rights,
Defend 'em to the death.
I've got my rights!!!
Let me tell you,
I got my rights
Particularly dear Amendment Two.
I've got my rights!!!
To tote a gun,
I loooooove those rights,
That preciously guarded one.
I've got my rights!!!
I'll use my firearm-
Try taking my rights
You'll buy the the farm.
I've got my rights!!!
To protect my kin
I got my rights-
Don't fence me in.
I've got my rights!!!
Cain't lock me down,
I've got my rights
I'll go right to town.
I've got my rights!!!
To get loose and loud,
I've got my rights
To hang with my crowd.
We've got our rights!!!
Wanderin' where we please,
We got our rights
To shoot the breeze.
We got our rights!!!
To gather Brotherhoodly together,
We got our rights
To go Hell for leather.
I've got my rights!!!
Rights we fought for,
I got my rights
To spread joy, and more.
I've got my rights!!!
To warn you off,
I got my rights
I'll shoot, I'll cough.
I've got my rights!!!
History's on my side,
I demand my gun rights
For which so many died.
I've got my rights!!!
Guns keep 'Merica Great!
Wanna spike my rights?
Like JFK, too late.
I've got my rights!!!
To smile with malice,
I got my rights
To openly carry in Dallas.
I've got my rights!!!
To roam around freely,
I got my rights
To scope out Dealey.
I've got my rights!!!
To believe in Holy Don,
I got my rights
To wholly swallow QAnon.
I've got my rights!!!
Too right- I am hypocritical-
You say you've rights?
Wrong! My rights aren't reciprocal.
I've got my rights!!!
I believe whats fake,
I got my rights
But screw you, Snowflake.
I've got my rights!!!
But if I'm fair
Others having civil rights-
I don't care or share.
Ain’t no arguing with them who shoot their mouths off before thinking.
See Ya Later Navigator.
If you're cruising down the Suez
Take this old sea dog's seasoned tip,
The last thing a good Captain should do is
Beach your bloody big barge of a container ship.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
The Cap'n stood on the burning deck
A'peering but not seeing ten feet ahead,
Sweat ran in rivulets down his outstretched neck,
This desert storm filled his a'salted eyes with dread.
From up front came a graunching sound
And a judder ran through from bow to rudder,
The bold Cap'n knew in a trice he'd run aground,
From deep amidships the Captain felt that shudder.
'O Captain! My Captain! What have you done?'
Chorused the crew from First Mate to low deckhand,
But the Captain had fled the bridge, Cap was on the run
Because when Mother Nature bursts forth you sit, not stand.
Oh, ship.
(Sorry, all you fans of Walt Whitman or Felicia Hemans. Someone’s already weighed in and called me an anchor about this. At least I think thats what she said.)
Bad Business.
We've expanded your ol' local Seven-Eleven,
Now we're ready for action twenty-four-seven,
We're here for your beer'n'snacks and cigarettes
But we won't extend you a tab or hold your debts.
'Sir, if you don't see what you want, just ask
But inside I'd rather you not wear that mask-
Oh; in light of your sideways Glock I now recall
In special circumstances we extend credit to all!'
My very first night of working dusk till dawn
And I'm already lookin' deathly pale and drawn,
In all my long days of working the seven till three
The one denying charging daylight robbery was me.
I called it in... eventually the cops rolled out,
That consistent diet of donuts helps, no doubt,
They began the sit-down-at-the counter interview,
They had free coffee, a whole jelly roll, but not a clue.
The jelly rolls quick demise cut the interview short,
Perhaps they'd had their fill of filling in their report?
They departed, snagging some Snickers without paying-
A five-fingered discount or more evidence in the weighing?
As my little corner of the world turns dark
I glare out at the shadily deserted car park,
Torn between leaving out the Welcome mat
And standing by the door with a baseball bat.
I used to spend all my given days a'waiting to serve
But that empty cash register shows I've lost my nerve,
My faith in customer relations- blown away, I can't deny,
Hoping every rattly banged-up ol' Cutlass quietly drives by.
I must just admit my shopkeeping days are done
If I can't trust the driver, or the dude riding shotgun,
This prime retail location looked fine in the light of day
Now here, due to Saturday Night Specials, crime does pay.
(‘Inspired’ by another news report on, yes, yet another armed robbery. Call it ‘Kim’s Convenience Store’ for the morbidly cynical and gun-shy.)
Same Old Abnormal.
After all these long dark careful months
Of staying locked down, home at nights
Some folk are missing what was normal once-
Just chaffing, a'wanting to exercise their rights.
They just wanna do what they used to do,
They just don't like the way things change,
They just don't- can't- wanna wait till '22 ,
They just wanna be home, out on the range.
Some do become increasingly frustrated,
Sick of staid-at-home and safe surrounds,
They wanna step out, feel free, liberated,
Go out to the club, let loose a few rounds.
A select few don't wanna stay quietly shut up-
Why go stir crazy, let the inner sports nut out!
Find your course of action, get out and cut up,
Or go crazy if they can't get their big butt out?
The urge to break loose grows ever stronger,
It is a curse, a burden many fail to shoulder,
Just a crazy one or two who can't wait any longer
Like those mad bastards in Atlanta and Boulder.
Yep, I think you've every right to those arms you bear,
But your NRA's wrong, blindly wilfully not seeing the link-
Some short-fused dum-dums need to stay in Secure Care,
No harm checkin' on permits? On fingerprints? Do ya think?
Bide-A-Wee.
(for those unfamiliar wi' the Scottish lingo, this means 'to stay, to linger, to tarry, to take pause, take a wee little moment.)
When out on an easy backwoods jog
Far from the home comforts of a bog,
With a bladder fully stirred and shaken
A private easement must surely be taken.
When time runs short
Don't get caught.
Time to break stride
And step aside.
Find a fine quiet upstanding privet hedge,
Towards a wee private dark corner slyly edge,
With cool careful precision flash and splash-
Careful, that touch of poison ivy- rather rash.
Don't be cocky, silly-
Spraying nilly-willy-
And it's downright folly
Dousing near holly.
Poisoned Pen.
I started my days as a news reporter
Back in the days a paper cost a quarter,
Rarely did I step up onto the front page
But I had a fair trot in the pre-digital age.
I recall the first day I started my paper run,
Up bright and early with 'The Morning Sun,'
But I rose too fast, too high, pushed too far...
Seeing out my days at the fading 'Evening Star.'
But the sorry day that ended with my fall,
It's a sad story I'm not happy to recall,
The tale beginning with 'writers block,'
Ending with my resigned John Hancock.
Every wordsmith asks 'why oh why
Sometimes the words within up and die?'
Sometimes not 'coz the mind's crapped out,
Sometimes the lousy pen's just tapped out.
How can a poor reporter report
When ink and inspiration run short?
How can you stick your account in when
You're stuck with a washed-up fountain pen?
My cheap nasty pen, wot a waste of cash,
Now all it writes is lots of dots... then... dash-
While the words are dancin' in my head
It's lose the pen and get out the lead.
But a pencil is best 2B left for school,
Shorthand soon makes of it a blunt tool,
Plus a pencil has a built-in handicap,
When writing under pressure- SNAP!
So up my shitey pen I did take,
Gripped tight, gave it a mighty shake,
Another black mark for the newsman-
Tossed the bleeding thing in the shit trash can.
From its wretched twisted stuck-up tip
Black As Midnight ink began to darkly drip,
There it lay, its Guaranteed word broken,
A final message can take its time to soak in.
This pen then proved it hadn't dried out,
Silly me- I never clicked it hadn't died out,
My long-time pen-friend I treated so cruel?
Its lifesblood began to viscously pool.
But my fine story I would complete,
This Fleet Street journo won't be beat,
I tentatively asked my Boss for her pen to loan,
No mistaking 'no' when the middle finger's shown.
So I broke the Days story, thanks to a crayon,
Twilight came, I blinked, and the day's gone,
I'd written off the entire day!
Time to clean up, up and away.
My desk, in its usual state of disgrace-
And my Boss demands a pristine workplace,
When it comes to dealing with the crap trash
My method is a sweeping slap-dash.
I upraised the document recycling lid,
Of my balled-up confusions soon be rid;
One problem with the rubbish I write
Is I jam in all I can, bad, good and tight.
Gravity wouldn't empty this rubbish bin
And so, I put my left hand in,
I pulled my write hand out
And waved it drippily all about.
What I felt was more than an inkling,
In the bottom, more than a sprinkling,
I had a bad feeling, down to my fingertips,
And a bad banned word sprung from my lips.
Just as the Boss entered, her face went white-
I stood guiltily, hands up, black as pitchest night,
Potty mouth, filthy hands, dirtier than Monty Burns;
And here is where the sad story sinisterly turns...
She, the prissy mistress of clean and tidy
Told me to clean out my desk by Friday,
So I demanded to see the Department Head-
We'd see to whom the riot act would be read!
The rumours I'd so cavalierly dismissed-
That red hot tip about the Boss's secret tryst-
That cock-a-doodle tale came home to roost-
I leapt to the conclusion like I'd been goosed.
When your Boss's Boss has a bossy mistress
And she wears both the pants and the dress
How did this No-Shit Sherlock fail to understand
In this curly situation she held the whip hand?
Now she demanded a letter saying I'd resigned-
I tossed it off, left on her desk, but left it unsigned,
As I raised my pen, something penned-up released-
A red mist exploded as my high circulation increased.
Her desk was so scrupulously clean it was scary-
But then again, she dumped it all on her secretary,
I was young, impulsive, angry and foolish, I'll admit it-
I left her anally-retentive room like a hurricane had hit it.
I reported down town, showed the cops my guilty face-
I should've just signed off and not trashed the place,
I'd left a trail of destruction, burnt all my bridges,
A black trail awash with all my whorls and ridges.
Thats where my career started to run downhill,
Once blistering exposes- trotted out, run of the mill,
My days as a serious Sun scribe went down the tubes
When my page 3 story was covered by a pair of boobs.
Now my short sentence has finished long since,
For twenty years I've kept clean(ish) fingerprints,
Still I'm known as a Criminally Damaged Offender...
And I coulda shoulda been a Nobel Prize contender.
I've worked every dirty rag, at Times, in the Big Smoke,
I'm Ex-Press, past Post, your Standard journalistic joke,
I've hacked at the News Of The World, for what it's worth,
That mob, that job lot- I've toiled for the scum of the earth!
I've written reams of rubbish I'm not proud of
For fu- folk I never dreamed I'd be in a crowd of,
I've had a dab hand in fiction passed off as fact,
But today I've resigned again rather than be sacked.
The bad news was- our little paper has been sold-
My new manager- that stone cold fox bitch of old,
I already knew 'to know her is to loathe her,'
But the company she keeps is even lower.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
So now I'm working for peanuts, for a free giveaway,
Honestly, I put in a big days work for a wee day's pay,
But it is reward enough to be just a poor wordsmith
If the face I see in the morning mirror I can work with.
My past Press Associations still sadly lingers,
People still point at me with shaking fingers,
Asking me if it's true, just what kind of twisted views
Do I hold to be too damn good to report for Fox News?
Cheap Penny Dreadfuls.
One fine day this dime-store writer will wise up,
Suss out as to why his buck-a-10 pack pen dries up,
Why do I persist in keeping my escritoire ill-equiped?
But I'm no gold-nibbed rich man, more... felt tipped.
In richer days I plucked up the flighty quill,
From its tip the Master's words must surely spill,
My manuscript was literally beyond description,
Illegible as my shaky trick Doc's prescription.
I've been advised to splurge out on a Scripto
But I'm too tight to sign up on that tip though,
That's one big cheque I'll personally leave blank,
I'd rather snip me a bargain... down at the bank.
At least no more notebooks I'll have to buy,
I've a wardrobe of A3s stacked five feet high,
When my old firm laid off their stationery clerk
They knew I've always taken home my paperwork.
So, doodling paper, I have oodles, I have screeds,
It's the piss-poor pens that don't serve my needs;
How many times I've pounded 'pon my poor desk top
When my cursive calligraphy decides to- fuc Full stop.
I do not advise going in ever-increasing scribbles
Until the paper thins and/or a drop of ink dribbles,
Then my penned-up words emerge when hard pressed-
Less a messy plot, yet more blots on my Rorschach test.
