Fa – the Green Dragon

A Place for the Odd Musings of an Expat Bristolian

Tag Archives: Poetry


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This is a test post

I am testing the Classic editor to determine if I can publish without a hitch.


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Con Donnie Lies Over the Ocean

can be sung to the tune of a traditional Scottish folk song about restoring a king during Jacobean times.

Con Donnie lies over the ocean
He lies wherever he goes
He lies about his friendships
With people that we call our foes

(Chorus repeats after each verse.)
Don’t lie oh don’t lie, Con Donnie don’t lie to me, to me
Don’t lie oh don’t lie, Con Donnie don’t lie to me.

His Pinocchio nose gets longer
Each time that he starts to speak
His lips, when he tells a new whopper
Take on the shape of a beak

He eats cans of worms for his breakfast
He gobbles down bowls of untruth
He shuns accountability
He’s done it since he was a youth.

His lies are all propaganda
His base sucks-up it all
Mostly he lies about building
A thing that he calls a wall

He told us that Mexico would pay for
construction down on the line
He’s Feeding his vanity and ego
With dough that was once yours and mine

It lies each time that he opens
The hole in his face that’s a mouth
Claims he’s making America great again
When in fact it’s all going south

He lies when he speaks without knowing
That what he just said is untrue
His fantasy thoughts are his reality
Which he fishes from out of the blue

Short on facts has become his trademark
Alternative ones are his choice
And all of those who surround him
Repeat his lies with one voice.

The con claims the art of the deal
But that’s a myth to make him sound tough
His art is to play the big bully
But to leave when the going gets rough

What a con, what a con is our Donnie
Snake oil is what he likes to sell
Mendacious claims come daily
The only words that he can tell

He lies about the lies that he’s uttered
Says things like “I never said that”
Seems he pulls most of his lies
From out of his MAGA red hat.

He cheats when he out on the golf course
Claims championships that he’s won
Truth is he was out there playing
All alone by himself in the sun

He claims he’s a vibrant young man
But he’s unable to see the jokes
Everyone knows that he’s a dotard*
As usual he claims it’s a hoax.

Bill Barr is his new legal beagle
who pooped on the Rose Garden lawn
Covering up misdeeds and wrongdoings
The AG is Con Donnie’s pawn

2020 elections are coming
Will it be a happy farewell?
Will it be lights-out for con Donnie?
And our country saved by the bell.

*  Dotard:    The Urban Dictionary defines dotard as follows:

A cross species between an Orangutan and an Oompa Loompa.  The Dotard is usually bred in captivity by wealthy families that wish to pass on their inheritance without having to raise an actual human. There are many similarities to a human, but you can usually tell the difference by their unique orange skin and hair.

 


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The Postman

THE POSTMAN

In the USA the one who brings the mail
Is referred to as the mailman even when named Gayle.
Some people find this weird
Mail lady is a term that’s almost never heard
In France they have a different name
To which they do refer
No matter if a guy or gal
It’s always le Facteur
In Germany that soul is known
by a name which is full of labor
for there they call that person
Simply der Brieftraeger
In Italy it’s il Postino, usually a man
But if it were a woman, I would be a fan
In Spain it’s el Cartero
Who brings a greeting-card or bill
and sometimes a love letter
to make a still heart thrill
But no matter who brings it I think we all agree
A letter in our mailbox is what we like to see
So right away, write today a short note to a friend
Or someone who is ill it will help them mend!


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Stories in Rhyme No.31 – Wanderlust

Stories in Rhyme No. 31 – Wanderlust
I had a nagging urge that told me I must write
And so, sitting at my keyboard I began to type.
At first the words came slowly Then gradually not at all
My mind it would not function, nothing to recall.
A thought then came to me, it was an awful shock
I had been stricken with this thing, they call it writer’s block.
This was not the first time, it had happened oft before
And so, I searched my memory for a quick and simply cure.
I began to think of old times, the days of distant past.
Days upon the high seas spent before the mast.
From Angola round the cape to a place called Zanzibar
With rum culls and Lascars and one, one-legged Tar
But now those days are done, no more do I quest
To view a new horizon from a place they call the nest
A garden plot is my place now, it’s where I ply my sport
Planting seeds I gathered up from many foreign ports
I have not seen every seed, there are many still unknown
But those taken and to my plot consigned were well and truly sown.
Did they grow to manhood or plant maturity?
Not always, but it was a wonder just to see
God’s miracle emerging from the soil
Green shoots searching sunshine, with just a modicum of toil.
Ampalaya, a bitter gourd has a taste to be acquired
A vegetable so good to eat, of which I’ve never tired.
And then Kamote, comes purple and it’s sweet
The original potato another tasty treat
With a glass of wine at hand, it’s good to reminisce
]and write down pleasant memories so the grand kids will not miss
Reading of adventure and so learn firsthand the truth
What grandpa was up to in the days of his youth.
And therein lies the use (perhaps) of stories told in rhyme
Many years from now will they stand the test of time
And become the stuff of legend or forgotten and then lost.
Or worse, consigned to boxes, (as I have done) to be buried in a loft.
What fun it is to find them, to blow off gathered dust
And relive forgotten moments and days of wanderlust.


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At The Corner

At the corner, just up the street,

is a wonderful place for a wonderful treat.

No other country, no other land,

has this treat which you eat by hand.

That’s right! Your fingers get so greasy,

Try it you’ll like it because it’s easy.

Potatoes peeled and cut into sticks,

and when they’re fried we call them chips.

Cod, Halibut or Plaice and sometimes Sole,

as good as soup but, without the bowl.

We’re talking fish, serious fish.

When battered and fried it’s just delish!.

Flaky mouthfuls of fish so white,

tender and tasty at every bite.

And then we add some things thereto,

pepper and salt and malted brew;

to soak up all the fat they say.

But, actually it’s just another way,

to make this treat taste good for me,

whether it be for my lunch or tea.

I heard they throw new stuff into the frier.

Mars Bars? Ugh, you’re such a liar!

No, it’s true an idea that’s new,

Deep fried dessert, a melted goo.

Ah! no such muck will pass my lips;

Not when I’ve got fish and chips.

Written July 10th, 2000.