The Troubles

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Where a look can tell you more than trite words ever could

And stepping outside might be the last thing you ever do.

Where vengeance can run deep and old scores  can bide their time

Waiting to be settled.



Where violence can shatter dreams and wake men

Sweating from their sleep.

As allegiances can change , not knowing who’s  counsel to keep.



Where hunting is done in the confines of the bar

The quarry trying to keep tabs of who the hunters are,

Using the cover of others and with their company keep,

Do you really  know who is who

Before you venture on the street?



Where trust is more valuable than anything else you may possess

And betrayal is an end game, you don’t want to take in jest.



The accountant’s a handy man who’s good at figuring things out.

Not that he’s violent mind! He has enforcers to provide the clout.



They all swear allegiance to the UVF or IRA

But go about their normal jobs from nine to five each day.


The Brits try to keep the peace between the orange and the green,


If you’re Catholic or a Nationalist their justice may seem a bit obscene.



So weary men are tired of never knowing from day to day

What their future holds and must needs compromise

To live a better way


Laying old scores to rest but maybe not forgiven

Accepting what has been gained



And getting on with living.

A Useful Idiot


How sad it is that the American people have become so disenfranchised from their representatives in Washington, both Republican and Democrat that they have allowed Putin to destabilise their political system with the installation of a useful idiot as President.

The problem is not unique to the USA but is occurring in the major so-called democracies where politicians see survival and power as the end and not listening to and representing the people who elected them .

There are endemic weaknesses in modern capitalism. The economic model seems flawed. The media are caught up in the economic model where ratings carry more weight than truth and are intertwined with the entertainment industry promoting self before duty, rights before responsibility and the short-term sensation rather than the long-term perspective ; and then there’s the real bogeyman of the economic model , productivity before sustainability.

How have we become so powerless?

How have our so-called leaders become so ordinary and disappointing?



The Publican’s Lament


Yes, we’re playing at The Last Jar

It’s a trifle cramped for sure.

The sun’s streaming through the windows

But can hardly hit the floor.


For every inch is taken

By a muso and his chair

With people crowding around the bar

Listening to the lively air.




Which leaves the bartenders stranded

 Thirsty patrons they can’t greet

To get their order for  beer or Guiness


So they’ll likely go off down the street


Music doesn’t pay the land tax

Of many thousand dollars once a year.



Don’t get me started on the government and land tax

Or the Banks


You know I went to the bank today

To get the some banking done.

There were only nine people queued up

And just one teller on.

Well a lady , she comes up to me,

Says would I like to take a seat

Then another lady comes and greets me

And asks

Would I like a cup of tea

But I digress

To pay the land taxes once a year

You  need to pull lots of Guiness

And an awful lot of  beer.


So as you’re listening to  the music

Leave some room around the bar

So thirsty customers


If you please

Front up

And buy a jar.



Six people murdered by Jimmy Gargasoulas

as he deliberately mowed them down on Swanston St. mall in his car;

many more injured

And a fortune will be paid to the silks

To prove the obvious,

That he is guilty of multiple homicide.


How much will be spent on improving the

way we deal with deranged people; always men, so it seems

and the all too frequent granting of bail?

Stuff the silk’s bottomless pockets!  use the funds to address the problem

so it’s less likely to happen again.

“Just When You Think You’ve Won” or”Never Trust A Developer “


Well they’re trying to tough it out,

Put their silks into the fray

But I have a funny feeling

That they’re not going to get their way

Yes, they’ll come to rue the day

They took on  battlers ,  law students 

And the locals on the street .

This was their favourite watering hole

Where they would come to meet.

It’s a very volatile mixture

That I’m sure they’ll come to rue

If you throw in the State Planner’s admonitions

And the CFMEU.

I hate to tell you jockey’s

When you say one thing

Then back away,

You’ve  bitten off more than you can chew

And you will come to rue that day.

You’ll get your just desserts,

Of this I’m fairly  sure

And we’ll all let out a cheer

When you’re brought down before the law.


A Summer Night In The City


The warm night air bathes my skin.

The trees stand lonely sentinel,

Their leaves hang still

While crickets chirrup,invisible

The moon watches

The still air hears everything

Making me regret the backwash of traffic

As my cars sleep soundly in the carport

Undisturbed by the constant buzz.

I close the door and retire to bed

Giving thanks to double glazing

And air-conditioning.


The Interloper


Desperate to be heard,

They came from the mid-west and south,

Used to make cars, white goods, sewing machines,

Were doing reasonably well

Until they were laid off

As their jobs went overseas.


Main St. became derelict.

Factories and houses were abandoned.

So in desperation they cried out

And elected

A bouffant quaffed old reality star,

A gutter-fighter with a silky voice

And manners like sandpaper,

Who flouted the formalities of

Distant Washington

And the sophistication of the Democrats.

A man who was shrewd enough

To see their plight.


Using twitter diplomacy.

A loose cannon

But a doer,

Shooting from the lips.

A mysogenistic, misanthropic , womanising groper

With a groper’s face to match,

Giving voice to the uncomfortable truth,

A voice that had to be heard.


Supported by the shooters and every other 

Low-life minority group that

You would not want to give voice to.


The reactionaries

Who were scared;

Scared of the immigrants

With their alien religion,

Who would take their jobs,

Forgetting that they too were once immigrants.


You warned us Bob, back in the sixties 

That the times would change.

You gave voice to it Cisto, with your sardonic songs

Portraying life as it really is

In Detroit and all the other rust-bucket towns

And abandoned Cities of the west.


Scared of the terrorist’s bomb,

Yet far more of you are murdered 

By your own countrymen.



You are loosing your sheen.

Take some responsibility.

For too long you have espoused

Mindless violence,

The cult of the anti-hero,

The me-first mentality.


There must be more to living than the Dollar,

Maybe it is due for a fall.

I hope not

For it will affect us all.


How about giving?

While you have your philanthropists,

Maybe more so than others,

Well , you can afford to.

A once generous country is becoming mean.


You have always been truthful,

Well nearly always.

Never loose  sight of the truth

No matter how ugly.