As far as finances go
I'm in a proper pickle,
My once flush cash flow
Has dribbled to a trickle.
The bills endlessly wash in,
Only my heart goes out,
My means are paper thin,
My prayers never more devout.
No assets left to seize,
All my boom's gone bust,
I'm down, on my knees,
Not one 'In God We Trust.'
Pacing the floor, by the door,
Going postal for that relief cheque
To pay off Bill's Convenience Store
Before he wrings my scrawny neck.
No last post for me today,
No welcome postman's knock,
The room's turning Arctic Grey,
I'm freezing and in hock.
I gather together every letter
In shivering mittened hands,
One time I'm a real go-getter,
Now holding only final demands.
Grab the largest pot
In the stone cold kitchen,
Dump in the miserable lot;
Got troubles? I'll pitch in.
All those weighty dispatches,
Gone up in a stroke,
Thanks to Safety matches-
Hello hellfire sulphur and smoke.
The letters dutifully brought
By the conscientious postman
Though warming, were too short,
More a flash in the pan.
I fear Bill knows my place,
I fear an after-hours surprise,
Afraid he won't leave this cold case,
Bill's got fire in his eyes.
Will Bill come by torchlight,
Say 'pay 200 bucks or go to jail?'
Cold comfort on a cold night?
Bill, bring a molotov cocktail.
Written for Chel Owens A Mused poetry contest, subject; 'a rant.' (Join in, jump in, its fun!)
Morning Has Woken.
Isn't it great to wake with a smile in the morning
And find the world's not facing another Armageddon?
That trusted policy hasn't flipped without warning,
There's no mobs clogging the streets he's wittingly egged on?
Isn't it a great comfort knowing there's a calm hand on the tiller,
To not be Bermuda Triangle bound, led by a First Class egocentric,
Back on a course charted by someone with a functioning Amygdala
Not by some Captain Crazy, sailing in circles increasingly eccentric?
Isn't it great to gratefully head happily to bed at night
Knowing in ten minutes you'll be peacefully snoring?
That yesterdays fading red dawn is turning blue and bright,
The days will be quiet, safe, secure and delightfully boring?
Isn't it great to not wake with the cold sweats
Without night terrors brought on by ghastly Tweets?
Not dry-heaving with gut-wrenching tummy upsets
With no further need for Laudanum or rubber sheets?
End Of The Hippy Dream.
When I finally take my last shot,
Knock back that final tot of gut-rot,
Line up that last toot and blow the lot...
Though mine's a wasted life, swift forgot
Remember this when laying out this old sot:
Lay me 'neath a cool chill spot,
I fear too soon I'll be smokin' hot-
Plant some fragrant herb, a little pot?
Pop in a few wild poppies as a forget-me-not,
Some grassy rolling field; make mine a fitting plot.
All Said And Done.
Larry King has done with the chit-chat,
Larry's once lively repartee has fallen flat,
The celebrated interviewer of famous faces
Has packed in his colourful phrases and braces.
After fifty years of jive and live talking
Now his time has come to do the walking,
Please stand, be silent, such moments are rare,
He's said his piece, made his peace, he's off the air.
Notes In Passing.
At the last possible moment, as he counts down the hours,
Before dawn arrives and he leaves with red downcast face
With twitchy fingers, with the last grasp of his fading powers
Don leaves Joe a post-it, writ with ill and begrudging grace.
The first word he's addressed to Joe not meant to mislead,
Nevertheless the closest thing Don could get to a farewell note,
Not a welcome nor a final word, Don refuses to concede,
Simply 'Good luck, Joe.' Don confirms 'and that's all I wrote.'
It's amazing Joe didn't reach for a flippin' Zippo and burn it,
Or rip it, rend, rive or tear it rather than cooly and calmly read it,
But, with a wry smile, add his footnote, sign it, seal it and return it;
'Don, I can't accept you wishing me luck, you're sure gonna need it.'
‘Deer Joe- gude luk – good luck.’
(Let’s hope there’s no more to be said on the misdirected unwrapped parcel of wholesale lies that is Don now that Trump, Inc. has been withdrawn from public consumption .)
Turn Of The Card.
Hammering the Master Card?
Spending with reckless disregard?
Maxed out the American Express?
Left cents and penniless?
Dangerously low on cash?
Facing your financial crash?
Monetarily strapped and depressed
By sky-high monthly interest?
Remember the good old days
Before receiving your Barclays?
Wanna be freed of debt,
Unburdened by deep regret?
Don't have cash in hand?
Indebted by over a grand
but still enticed by what's in store?
It's all too tempting to ignore.
Deep in the shi in hock?
Fearful of the postman's knock?
Gentle reminders stacking up?
Red lettered demands backing up?
Striving for a happy ending,
To cease this senseless spending?
Over that credit card you've just signed
Instantly returned, discredited, declined?
Here's what I've hard learned;
Don't spend what ain't earned,
Before those bankers block it
Take that card out of pocket.
Time to lift the curse
From wallet or purse,
No more living on the edge,
Time to stop the haemorrhage.
Withdraw that piece of plastic,
We're gonna do something drastic,
No more will you nonchalantly swipe it,
You owe a debt to yourself to wipe it.
Here's my last card tip-
This card must get the snip,
Grab scissors or pinking shears...
This is gonna end in tears...
Time to grab a pair,
It's time to end this affair,
When you're behind the eight ball
It's the unkindest cut of all.
Cut your bastard Master Card in two,
It's the only creditable thing to do,
Ain't no financial gain without pain;
Now, never play them cards again.
(Started off as a few throw-away lines of comment. But I just can’t leave bad enough alone. As my credit card statement shows.)
Mar-a-LaGoose Nursery Rhyme Time.
The clown is counting down the fading hours, his mood- none too sunny,
His spouse is confiding with her briefs, talk of divorce, acrimony- money,
He's made his tiny mind up to drag down Democratic ideals before he goes-
Pardon his bad, then he'll recast his ex-best GOP friends as his darkest foes.
(Posted after a prompt from Chel Owens A Mused Poetry competition, prompt being ‘New Year Resolutions’ limerick style.)
It's time to repeat the same damned vow I swore
This time last year, as I've done many years before,
My now traditional annual end-of-year vow-
'Next year I'll be a better man than I am now,'
So many broken promises, still plenty more in store.
We two stood together apart for five minutes or more,
Waiting on an (American) elevator or (British) lift,
No way was I considering walking up to the top floor;
That exercise in futility received lightning short shrift.
Finally Otis arrived, and I stepped towards the door
Only to be, first, left standing, secondly, left miffed
As she swept past me, and with raised red painted claw
Jabbed her button first, cementing our yawning social rift.
She looked down upon the funky grungy garb I wore,
This high-end consumer looked to be no fan of my thrift,
Lifting a perfectly plucked eyebrow at this walking eyesore,
Pointedly tilted up her snooty aristocratic nose as if I whiffed.
Soon an unpleasant presence appeared neither could ignore,
Stuck in the close confines I retchedly gagged while she sniffed
Before showily reaching into her Gucci and spritzing more Dior,
But she wouldn't catch my watering eye, if you catch my drift.
Punch That Ticket.
Well kiddies, school has played out at last,
These past four foolish years have painfully passed,
Now it's time for you dummies to wise up fast
Before you're forever classed amongst the dumb-assed.
The class clown has run out of time to run amok,
The idea of not being centre stage causing a nasty shock,
The ol' bone spurs have slowed down the cocky Jock?
Now not even his full Court press can stop the official clock.
Now that the leader of that MAGA hatter band
Must try to understand he is losing all sole command,
Perhaps a few will rise, principles cupped in hand
Stepping from the silent shadows to take a belated stand?
Agin a guy whose self beliefs lie towards the compulsive?
Whose vile denials truly do border on the sickly revulsive?
Why stay and placate a man so childishly impulsive?
Surely not all clad in Republican red are that repulsive?
Even as the road to reality continues to widen
Any fool would concede the trail leads back to Biden...
If you must be part of the wreck Democracy died in
Buckle in, Bub- the Pity Party Bus will get rough to ride in.