The Ghost of Clacton

The Ghost of Clacton

The ghost of Clacton, much revered,

Disappeared and reappeared;

And how the little people cheered;

In hope he would remain.

But in a flash he made a dash,

To crash the presidential bash;

All over Donald like a rash,

He looked to be again.

But Musk had tweeted in-between

And made a scene, since last he’d been,

Hence Donald, now no longer keen,

(Indeed if he was ever),

Dismissed as toast, the doting ghost,

(Whom he, the host, still loved the most,

Or so the ghost was wont to boast),

And left him to the weather.

The ghost, in spite of wounded pride,

Took all in stride and sat outside,

Alongside Tories, each denied

A coveted invitation.

He then withdrew, and back he flew

To where they threw a hero’s due,

And after but a day or two,

He set off on vacation.

(an acrostic)

(an acrostic)

E very so-often, a figure appears,

L arger than life, egotistical,

O utrageously wealthy, full of ideas,

N arcissistic; a very influential,

M agnetic, ambitious, charismatic,

U niter of masses, appealer of pride,

S ower of doubt; a ruthless, enigmatic,

K nower of kings and emperors worldwide.

I ntellectuals, morons, rich and poor

S ucked into believing every utterance,

A ttend rallies and cheer, with evermore

N ationalistic fervour, wilful ignorance,

A dmiration, and even religious

Z ealotry; fuelled by a superstitious

I ntolerance t’ward the non-indigenous.

C ometh these dictators, we live and die

U nder the cosh, and after they’ve gone say,

N ever again, as the ghosts of soldiers sigh;

T urning in their graves on Remembrance Day.

KISS

KISS

KISS played a gig at Wembley Arena,

Back when it was called The Empire Pool,

And when ticket fees were fairer, leaner,

London pub prices more affordable,

And train-travel, cheaper beyond recall;

Though tonight Rob drove, whilst we in the back,

Opened and drank a Special-Brew six-pack.

Upon arrival, I being quite pissed,

Rob parked his van; I don’t remember where;

We walked past a pub I couldn’t resist,

Steve and I had a few bevvies in there,

And after we left, I didn’t much care

One way or the other, whether I saw

KISS or not, I just wanted to drink more.

We staggered and swayed along Wembley way,

Found an offy; Jack Daniels I bought,

And throwing the empty bottle away,

Entered the Pool with my drunken escort;

Made an American angry, distraught;

I asked him how far he’d flown to get here,

Having knocked over his overpriced beer.

Somehow we made it to the highest tiers,

And caught the tail end of Bon Jovi’s set,

The songs of which meant nothing to my ears,

Nor the band, who I’d never heard of as yet,

Still playing as I, struggling to get

To the bar, stumbled and fell like a clown

Into the stewards, who sat me back down.

KISS came on playing minus the face-paint,

(Not a song; I mean they weren’t wearing any),

And we, both deciding: KISS fans we aint,

Asked of ourselves simultaneously:

“Who the fuck are KISS”? left ‘em to the many,

Made a sharp-exit, got paralytic,

And sat at the kerbside frankly pathetic.

They found us in the brotherly embrace

Of partners in drink, tight as Siamese twins;

I must have crashed out, but in any case,

Next thing I recall is the rubbish bins

Outside my flat, and beyond that

…More tins,

More bottles, more pubs, more nights on the piss,

But NEVER regret, for not seeing KISS.