HarMonica

Why is it the ‘other’ woman
Brings us out in rash hysterics
Howling at the moral failings
Of our politicians? Clerics,

Parents, teachers, doctors, shrinks
All united in their hatred
Of a figure that still stinks
Clad in pot pourri de tabloid

That blue dress, evocative:
Events that should be long forgotten
(Youthful indiscretions hid)
Provocative, with gains ill-gotten

We suspect and we accuse –
Cynical, the cuckold’s friend
And tap out mindless platitudes.
While vain, her struggles to defend

What shreds of reputation, scorched
And tattered to her yet remain;
We gather up our pitch and forks
And stoke the pyre once again

Anticipating further fun
Rough justice for another’s slight
We gather at suggestion
She might escape unhappy flight

Delighted at the sacrifice
Of one more soul to unjust mob
Let he without sin cast the first
(So many more the crowd will lob)

In brave hypocrisy at what
No doubt too many may have done
Themselves and not been hotly caught
Entrapment by ambition

Pilloried or harried hence
Built to take a desperate dive
Fashioned into common, dense
Unfit for consort, Saints alive!

The very thought a woman wronged
Who made a choice that haunts her still
Might be allowed to face the throng
And live down public shaming? Ill

At ease with those she counted on
Whose turncoat ways still cause distress;
We won’t allow her to move on
And rake old muck to make new mess.

What is it we hope to gain
Constructing walls to keep her caged
When influence she held through fame
Is long dissolved and disengaged?

A public life, her sentence stands
With little room for private grief
Unhappy Recognition’s hands
Control where she may find relief.

Now with a cause she would promote
To shame the bullies that still flaunt
A woman’s infamous deep throat
For speaking up for truth not taunt.

I wish our morals stretched as far
Restraining tongues at twitter time
Realpolitiks remain sub par
We’ve little else to do online

Slut-shaming is our dearest trend
As one more hussy kicks herself
For lending hands and more to end
All dignity, career and wealth.

This altar calls for fresher blood
I fear the next will pay a price
The mob is in an ugly mood
With barely-legal sacrifice

Lined up for entertainment here
Soon rubber-necking, righteous louts
Will crowd around to shove and leer
At those who try to tough it out

We’ll see them crawl and cry and squirm
Extracting vengeance from each one
With twerking fervour: all must burn
Up goes the cry – the hunt’s begun.

The Batchelor

A blue-eyed boy
Of brooding stare
Sells daydreams of
Devil-may-care

He need not speak
It’s in his air
All others pale
To see him there

An unfamiliar
Tempting treat
His louche appeal
Seems twice as sweet

Than does our more
Suburban fare
‘Tis solid, stodgy
We compare

This fantasy
To what’s at home
And straightway chart
Our course to roam

Thus leaving scruples
Far behind
Beg an adventure
Of the mind

Insubstantial

Falling in love again
With another dream
How inconvenient
Soppy and obscene

Too many crowded rooms
Longing looks and sighs
Corny lines and flat champagne
And twinkles in our eyes

Falling in love again
Old enough to know
How much is fantasy
What little truth we show

Yet in advancing age
Imagine how we try
We sip our drinks and steal a scene
And go back home to cry

Falling in love again
Should have learnt by now
Too many handsome men
With troubles on their brow

Cast caution to the wind
And settle on a cloud
We see the signs and pass the time
Conduct affairs out loud

Falling in love again
So sensibly we dance
Let Nature take her course
Avoid the path of Chance

Filled with the emptiness
Of knowing that we can’t
We’ll somehow warm to loneliness
We dare not risk our hearts

J-Epic

Jennifer made such a pact with her John,
swore that their love would live on and anon
together they’d dwell, in some cottage on high
but little she knew that her pact was a lie.

For John had another, a charming young gel,
with whom, as it happened, he too’d vowed to dwell:
Poor sweet Josephine was barely out of school
but well-versed in the art of turning men to fools.

She’d wrapped John around like a bandage on thumb.
Jenny could do nothing, but feel rather glum,
as of this attachment, her John had stayed mum;
so being a bright girl, she chose to have fun.

Jen went to a party, dressed all in her best.
The music was loud, and so were all the guests.
Such boisterous antics you never did see
as what passed for dancing at Jenny’s party.

Now Jo was frustrated, she’d heard of this soiree,
but John wouldn’t take her, she swore he’d be sorry.
As she raved and she ranted, dear John got an inkling
that Jo wasn’t quite the sweet flow’r he’d been thinking.

So John took a leaf from a book known to all
womankind whose minds turn as from summer to fall,
and he called up his Jenny, but got quite a fright
when a deep voice responded – and after midnight!

Now Jake was a boxer – quite muscled and mean.
He looked fierce, but treated our Jen like a queen.
He revelled in taking her out on the town,
and showing her off in her best evening gown.

It happened one night that the foursome did meet
and awkwardly stood for a while in the street,
while Jo sized up Jenny, and John stared at Jake,
until Jake whispered low – now that runt I could take!

Just give me the word, Jenny dear, and ’tis done.
This fool should have kept you as his number one,
but he preferred flat-chested chit over there –
the one still in pigtails, who waxes her hair.

But Jenny said shush with a smile and a laugh.
What’s done is now done, no need for a bloodbath.
He’s seen what he’s missing – and for the last time.
Now let us move on – weren’t we going to dine?

The couple swept off in their silks and their furs,
and John saw his Jen finally had got hers.
He turned to see Jo with her face turning pink
clearly about to let fly with some stink.

But instead of attempting to stem her mid-flow,
John just gave a sigh as he turned round to go,
and Jo stood astounded to see that her fit
was being ignored by dear John – what a git!

So put out was our young miss by male restraint
that she flagged down a taxi and left John to paint
the town red on his own, for she cared not a bit
that her leaving was dumping him right in the shit.

For Jo’s mother had taught her, while still in the cot,
that while young, there’d be more fish to catch with a yacht.
So Jo set to fishing, and this with a will,
and John was left high, dry, and feeling quite ill.

Song of the mistress

I wait by the phone for your ring.
It’s foolish, but here is the thing.
Although you have her and life isn’t so tough
It seems even perfect girls aren’t enough.

Why lie to yourself on your wedding day’s eve?
If you truly loved me, it’s her you would leave.
But somehow you’ve woven this web to suit you –
Get to marry the cake, but you still eat me too!

I love you too much to demand that we wed.
So it’s her with the ring, but me in your bed.
Just how did things go so surprisingly wrong?
I gave you my heart to be trampled upon.

You love me, admit it! I see that you do.
In hiding the truth, who’re you fooling? Guess who!
She’ll hate you for lying and leading her on.
But she’ll win in the end: If you love me, be strong!

The honeymoon’s over, she’s pregnant, you say?
Well my deepest condolences. Now, go away!
You have quite some nerve waltzing back here to me
After three weeks of sun, sand and sex by the sea.

What am I doing? How did we get here?
In love and adultery nothing is fair!
Now three children later you’re out on your ear
And trying to crawl back to me now, I fear.

True love lasts a lifetime, yes, this much I know.
Or I would have shown you the door long ago.
So my hands are tied, why, what else could I do?
I’m finally getting to grow old with you!