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Meghan and Harry Millennials adore this pair, yet their Explosive documentary release Gives boomers pause. Has Harry been unfair? He should have let his grandma rest in peace! As he and Meghan dish more dirt, the high Nobility close ranks around the Crown And worry for its future ... though here's why No lord need fear the monarchy's brought down: Duke Harry and his Duchess whine on cue, Harrumph and humblebrag and slag the Firm And pose and preen for cameras, but eschew Revealing all they know—the pachyderm, Right in the room. Why? I believe these souls Yearn secretly for proper royal roles! (First published in Grand Little Things on 9th August, 2023. Story here) |
Discreditation Discreditation aimed at Putin's troops Is apt to dent the tyrant's self-esteem. So blogger Ivan Losev made an oops Confessing, over Instagram, his dream Revealed a vision of Vlad's foe: red-hot Ex-comic Prez Zelenskyy led armed men Detaining Russians to be bound and shot, Including Ivan—till the moment when The Prez said he liked Ivan's posts online And, granting him a selfie, turned him loose To blog some more ... Though Ivan got a fine, It won't deter his efforts to traduce Old Vladimir, and help Ukraine prevail— Not even if he's put in Putin's jail! (First published in Light on 19th December, 2022 as one of the Poems of the Week. Story here) |
Stowaway Ursine Shall I remind you of the way you were The day you washed up in a seaweed clump On Cornwall's shore? You didn't have much fur. Without a tummy, arms and legs or rump, A threadbare rag too buffeted by swells, With just a nose to hint you'd been a bear, And caked with plastic, pebbles, sand and shells, You stank to heaven up on high—to where Us vicars get our inspiration from ... Remember then? But now you are reborn. Sewn back and stuffed with teddy-bear aplomb In brand new fur, you're whole—but I'm now torn, Not knowing whence you stowed away. So I'm Examining your kelp to trace its slime! (Slight variant of poem first published on 6th February, 2023 in Oddball Magazine. Story here) |
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It's Too Un-French It's too un-French to work till sixty-four. The sacred social contract validates State pensions once you're sixty-two, no more, To fund your golden years. In other states Of Europe, they may work till sixty-six Or more, but if you constantly perform Up frigid roofs, or down a trench with picks— Not in an office, where your bum stays warm From sitting in a comfy armchair—then Retirement can't come soon enough ... Relent, Emmanuel, or we will strike again! Not one of us believes the pot is spent Completely, that's why France forbids you to Hike pension age—it's too un-French to do! (First published in Light on 6th February, 2023 as one of the Poems of the Week. Story here) |
Who Art In Heaven? Who art in Heaven? Art Thou He or She? How can we know almighty Heaven's where Our Lord or Lady lives—won't Sheaven be Almighty if Thou art not Père, but Mère? Revision of Our Father's overdue: Thy realm is not a kingdom to await If Thou art hallowed queen—then, if we're too Nefarious, should Shell not be our fate? ... High Anglicans who seek to redesign Ecclesiastic texts need Thee to show A sign of whether Thou art of divine Virility or feminism—though Expect, since elders are not big on Her, No matter who Thou art, they'll call Thee Sir! (First published on 27th February, 2023 in Oddball Magazine. Story here) |
Sweaty And Dirty Sartorially sumptuous on air Was how reporters for the Beeb once were Expected to appear—but dirty hair And sweaty armpits now are de rigueur: To win the viewer's trust, don't look as though You just stepped off red-carpet duty—smell Authentic! To distinguish you from faux News anchors wearing suits and ties to sell Deliberately biased breaking views, Dress down, reflect your viewers' garb! This norm Is recommended for all rolling news Reporting, to engage the TikTok swarm ... Though if you'd be like them, should you not wear Your underwear or PJs on the air? (First published in Light on 27th February, 2023 as one of the Poems of the Week. Story here) |