Well Run Dry.
I used to thrill
To raise the quill,
Words gambolled on and on;
I guess that thrill is gone.
Dyspraxic digits clubbed the keyboard,
Typos and good grammar ignored,
Ideas tumbled happily from the mind
As fingers fumbled, sentences behind.
I’d thought I had something to say,
An amusing pun, bandy some wordplay,
Double entendres, two-fingered typed fun,
Now it’s two thumbs down for this tragic one.
Joie de vivre weighs heavy in my head,
Even my black humour is all but dead,
Trying to dredge up some light flight of fancy
Would mean a lift of spirit worthy of necromancy.
To raise the odd smile was my glad intent,
Sad, all my good humour’s gone off and went,
Perhaps it’s for the best to to stay quietly depressed?
So I’ll do as weary old readers have and give it a rest.
(Just a touch of burn-out showing? Obviously. Overtly melodramatic? Yep. Self-pitying? Yessiree Bob. Maudlin? Yes indeedy. So, time for a little time out? Fuck yes.)
A Closed Book.
These are devilishly long hard days to be living in
For those devoted to leading sinners away from sin,
Those righteous souls who do as their Saviour tasked-
Saints who you witness rockin’ up to your door, unasked.
Now in this lockdown they can’t answer their Calling,
For those sent to spread His word ’tis Gawdawfully galling;
Pity those fresh missionaries, stuck in the invidious position
Of not being out and about recycling their God given mission.
The constraints of secular law include even the devout,
Even Gods foot-soldiers must toe the line and not step out,
They can’t gather en-masse at either temple or Kingdom Hall,
For Witnesses or LDS’s with OCD it must drive ’em up the wall.
Now social distancing means no neighborhood outreaching;
Ain’t a saint alive who’d deny the lure of back street preaching,
But locked in, forbidden to congregate with others of their flock?
Gazing at their own door, biting their knuckles, so tempted to knock.
Yea, the good and faithful must sit at home, with idle hands,
Call me cynical, but if He’s real I really hope He understands-
If your door rappers see this pestilential visitation as Your test
I take great comfort knowing your troopers have to give it a rest.
At least the Witnesses can kneel- and resole their boots,
And the bros on bicycles can press their shiny-assed suits,
Thanks, Lord, now I have time to seek some signs of my own-
Private Property Keep Out, Go with God, leave me the hell alone.
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.
Daddy Of Them All.
She claimed she was oh-so-pure,
Maintained it was none but he she’d love,
Gave her cross-my-heart swear-to-god word,
Then her bitter tears cascaded to the ground
And she wailed for all she was worth.
So sweet, innocent, oh-so-demure,
Inculpable of what he was thinking of,
Still, that ol’ devil doubt uneasily stirred,
He looked up, but no answer there he found;
Can angels fall, down here on earth?
Sure, now he might not be quite so sure,
But hadn’t his love sworn to heaven above?
Then when the magical miraculous event occurred
Rather than let the bad word get spread around
Father Joe and mother Mary announce: a virgin birth.
(I fear an apology is necessary,
If I’ve offended I meant no harm,
So, so sorry.
Sweet Jesus, Joseph and Mary,
Christ knows I’m sorry.
I pray the third one’s the charm?)
As your Pope I deeply and profoundly regret
If my slap-happy action caused the lady upset.
But to my flock all I ask is to patiently stand
And let your pontiff extend his blessed hand.
Kindly wait for your trembling hand to be taken,
To grab it in a death-grip will surely leave me shaken.
Remember, we don’t press the flesh in the Vatican,
Your man of God is frail and fractious at eighty-one.
To cling to His Eminence’s hand may be no mortal sin
But my patience and arthritic bones are now wafer thin.
So ma’am, forgive me, I’ll be eternally in your debt,
I’m only human, with no certainty of a sainthood yet.
Donald’s upping sticks and leaving his home town,
He’s set his mighty mind on moving South and down,
Sunny Florida is where he wants to go,
Home sweet home, Mar-a-Lago.
He’s heartily sick of crawling traffic and stalling rents,
Don’s grass looks greener on the other side of the fence,
Don no longer seeks the Big Apples seedy streets,
He’s at home, on the course, teeing off as he tweets.
Where does one begin
To talk about a dog like Finn?
You acquired a dog one joyous day
For what seemed a fair price to pay.
His whining kept you up half the night-
Oh, you’d been sold a pup all right.
Want to take a drive, go for a ride?
Open the door, be brushed aside.
A quick stop outside the butchers shop
And the drooling would never stop.
Return to excited nose prints on the glass-
Open the window- his farts will pass.
Take him for a walk in the park,
That hound was bound to leave his mark.
You get a doggy grin and a tail wag
And a steaming Pak’n’Save bag.
Then, once walkies were done
Finn might well fire off another one!
That dog was trouble, right from the start
And then he goes, and breaks your heart.
So farewell Finn and farewell Smith,
Proof mans best friend is no mere myth.
Just days after the departure of Doris Day
Tim Conway has gone and gone the same way,
He’s done last his run, he’s taken his final bow,
He’ll be asking Saint Peter about any openings by now.
Who could ever forget
Tim cracking up Carol Burnett
And leaving the entire set
With cheeks and tidy-whities wet?
So Tim has sadly gone, and only God knows why-
Perhaps, these days, He feels He needs a funny guy?
Lordy, it’s not for us to question the likes of Thou
But he’s gone, and left, and it’s a sadder world now.
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.
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.