(A quick snide aside following the form of yesterday’s few lines.)
Dom and BoJo have lost the plot,
That terrible two make one sorry lot,
The old iron-clad brotherly bond is shot,
That once creepily friendship, now forgot,
Still mutually respectful- most definitely not!
Now they wouldn't share the same piss pot.
Another few lines- these two deserve a half-decent hearing.
Dominic and BoJo both realise
Their relationship has hit its demise,
Farewell twisted bonds, Old School ties-
Whatever Dominic accuses, Boris denies,
But who could you trust to believe whose lies?
This couldn't happen to two déclassé-er guys.
Dominic Cummings vicious nasty attack
Must trigger a quick Johnson come-back,
When two old besties start talking smack,
Once cosy Old Boy alliances begin to crack
Someone in Tory-Town is way out of whack.
C'mon, seriously old chaps- pot, kettle, black?
Derek Chauvin denied his all-too-obvious guilt,
His good lawyer argued his lousy case to the hilt,
Tried to frame Floyd's death as a 'medical mystery,'
Pity Derek's knee on the neck was there for all to see.
Once a cop could blow off an 'escape attempt,'
Treat 'alleged' brutality with a smile of contempt,
Once any cops perjur-ative testimony was enough;
Now a cheap cell phone video will call Derek's bluff.
And so, the damning evidence was played;
That don't look good for Derek, I'm afraid;
Derek, looking all innocent won't succeed;
Jurors, how much evidence do you kneed?
Deep down Derek knew the jury's verdict could be no surprise
Though a flicker of emotion darkened those lizard-like eyes,
Yes, behind his mask how truly sorry (for himself) he feels-
His first day inside and he'll be sucking down liquid meals.
There are so many inside who'll happily rearrange his smile,
So many too ready to mete out some justice without a trial,
He's prayin' hard for a solitary sentence, the full 24 hours;
Beats being on his knees whenever he visits the showers.
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.
And Jolly Good Company...
Imagine If I could stand and face you instead of using Zoom?
Imagine if we could all be close together in the one room?
Ever since the sad business of the emergence of Covid-19
We've had no choice but do the business via video screen.
As I gaze proudly around our fabulous but far-flung team
I'd like to thank you all for turning my nightmare into a dream,
So, though we're physically far apart my profits have far improved
Gettin' the loyal gang back together leaves me virtually unmoved.
I see I don't need your asses sitting around my expensive real estate
So you're all FIRED!- unless you accept my Home Contractors rate-
Surely immediate redundant executive positions had to be expected
For no one is ever safe- present big Head of the Company excepted.
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.
(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.)
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.)
(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-
And it's downright folly
Dousing near holly.
The Buck Stops Here.
In our family tree
Few entertain writing poetry,
But my Great Aunt
Handed me a grant.
To College I went,
Her talents I misspent,
One thing was clear-
I'm a poor Shakespeare.
So, like 'Paradise Lost'
Out I was tossed-
No safe havenly dorm
Thanks to D-grade form.
Such is the curse
Of purveyors of verse,
Down to last buck
Till a stroke struck.
With Great Aunt dead
Good will was read,
My unexpected little dividend
Cheered me no end.
Time wasted at home
I'd lavish on poem,
I strutted up town,
Laid my deposit down.
No stairs to climb,
I'd take my time,
My musings, tediously glacial
Echoing round rooms palatial.
I liked to compose
My rich redolent prose,
Pure black 'pon white-
Like, Old School, write?
Fine paper, finer pen...
Increasingly, now and then,
As poor circumstances demand,
Whatever comes to hand.
My talent, beyond doubt?
Amazingly quickly run out,
Who'd ever have thought
I'd be caught short?
Tragically under financial collapse
I'm reduced to scraps,
My outlook's growing darker-
Newsprint and Magic Marker.
My so rosy outlook
Decimated my cheque book,
Past goodwill rarely counts-
Good cheques don't bounce.
From my bottom floor
Was shown the door,
What problems it poses
When one's door closes?
For half the rent
Upstairs I went, bent-
My heavy rent cheapened
As the stairs steepened.
From canopied four-poster bed
To attic inches overhead,
Like Lizzie Barrett Browning
Fiscally and literature-lly drowning.
Rent a month overdue-
Girlfriends says she's two-
All the money's gone-
A moonlight flit's on.
I'm up at midnight
'Neath moon and skylight,
Sadly I'm not above
Running out on love.
Press the dormer window,
Peer waaaaay down below,
Put aside my vertigo-
Hey, way to go!
I'd knot some sheets
And hit the streets,
But I've some pride-
And a humungous backside.
The rent cheque submitten
I've left woefully underwritten,
Whoever's rattling my door
I'm writing no more!
Giving Writers credit- fiction!
I'm facing cold eviction,
Pen mightier than sword?
Tell my pernicious Landlord.
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.