Barnaby Joyce, Australia’s Deputy Prime Minister. Moral guardian, anti Gay marriage, a man of staunch moral principles and the Catholic faith. Alas, he’s only sub-human, after all.

Peoples Choice.

Barnaby Joyce is one hell of a guy,
Well, a hell of a politician, few can deny,
He has stepped out on his wife and four kids,
Blame ‘True Love’ not lust, for a career on the skids.

Will his conservative voters forgive his moral flaws?
Shouldn’t a Catholic living in carnal sin not give him pause?
Siring a secretary’s sprog out of wedlock’, he’s pushing it, rather.
Sadly, Barnaby can’t help it if his new kid has a bastard for a father.

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Another one to throw out there, off the top of my head. Much like the dashing debonair pompadoured Donald did, actually.

Thin Skinned And Thick Headed.

Don’s having a bad hair day today, lets be blunt,
It sits imposingly on his head, but back to front,
It’s thick- ever so thick, from hairline to crown,
Long enough to slick it back and stick it down.

There its lacquered and all but tacked in place;
For a balding man he’s got it all ass-about face,
Donald is inordinatly proud of his golden mane
But one puff of wind shows it is all in vain.

Donald thought flying on Air Force One would be a breeze. Now he’s up there, running his trembling hands through his hair.

Swept Away In Style.

Donald has perfect hair of platinum gold,
Its a creation that’s a wonder to behold,
But as he boldly boarded Air Force One
All saw Male Pattern Baldness had begun.

The back of the great mans pate
Gleamed in a barren and hairless state,
His lustrous locks have long since thinned,
His careful comb-over, gone with the wind.

The only one worried his hair has gone
Is the ever youthful, even childish Don,
But you can guarantee, after today
Don’s investing in a toque, or a toupee.

As the stock market takes a bit of a dip and stockbrokers get a trifle twitchy, where is the voice of reason to allay all their fears? And ours.

Dow In the Dumps.

As the stock market hit astronomical heights
Donald loudly and proudly took bragging rights,
Came February First and the worm began to turn;
Walls and Wall Street falling cause Don grave concern.

You know The Donald’s feeling sick
When he turns down the rhetoric.

Suddenly Donald’s loquacious lip is zipped,
His air as morose as that at the family crypt,
Donald’s brown study is as silent as a tomb,
A place of rare quiet contemplation, we assume?

Donald is rarely at a loss for something to say,
But Trump stock falling takes his breath away.

When Don’s face and the Dow continued to drop
His self-congratulatory words trundled to a stop,
From the Oracle, the one true prophet comes ‘nary a peep,
Dons sycophants wonder how long he’ll let his dumbness creep?

With his ego though, the silence will be all too brief,
But hasn’t this pause come as a blessed relief?

If you pick up that remote you might click onto something, something perverse and sick. It might well shake a God fearin’ soul to their very bones. No, don’t go there! That channel will show you stories that will make your eyes pop and your poor head spin.

Faux News.

Here at Fox the truth is told,
We cling to the standards of old,
We ALERT you of freedoms under attack,
We’re proud to have our great Presidents back,
We mean the right one, not the one who’s bla… Barrack.

Some say we’re racist, but to be fair
Only poor folk benefit from Obamacare,
Now, under our highly esteemed President
That money that would’ve been poorly spent
Can go to tax cuts for Dons deserving one percent.

Its for OUR flag and country that we stand-
For a place for (w)all in this, OUR Great land,
We listen- too patiently- to those who try us,
Damn loathsome Liberals, the unrighteous and impious,
Unpatriotic Lefty immigrant lovers who accuse us- US! of bias.

Another morning of waking up with that dawning feeling you did something last night you now regret. (Thanks for the invite, Mike.)

No Body Likes A Lycanthrope.

What’s a poor werewolf to do
When his world and the moon turns blue?
As in this mind the lunacy surges
And the brain is beset by unsavoury urges?

I can’t help but prowl the night
And hope my bark’s worse than my bite,
But to my nature I’ve been true
And clearly bitten off more than I can chew.

This rare blood moon has ramped up my compulsion
And ‘neath its light I’m filled with revulsion,
When it comes to regrets, quite Frankly, I have a few,
Its an issue, like this leg tissue, I’m working through

If I’m ever caught I’ll be Wormwoods bound
Or perhaps, more humanly, the Battersea pound?
My beastly hair-raising episodes I do deeply rue
So I’m keep ’em tightly leashed for a week -or two.

The last (lust?) word on whipping in to inner London in December for a quick Christ-messy weekend. Accommodating desires and accommodation can be uncomfortable.

Little Room For Love In London.

I’m not saying London’s dark and gloomy
Or that the Hotel Le Cubicle is less than roomy,
Or there’s no room within to swing a pussycat,
I don’t believe we can stretch credulity to that.

Should one find one who whets one’s sexual appetite
Don’t invite her back to share the night,
One will find oneself feeling like a monk
Unless she’s happy top’n’tailing in a bunk.