Ol' Mate Blue - Penned by Penny

Old Blue At The Supermarket.



There was chaos down at Woolies, for the word had somehow spread

That a truck load of supplies had come that night

And the scene that early morning filled assistants hearts with dread

As a mob of hoarders gathered for the fight.

They’d come from towns and villages from miles and miles about

The carpark it was packed with cars and utes.

They’d armed themselves with trolleys and like cattle in a drought

Had turned into a mob of angry brutes



But one was there, one not unlike a mallee bull in size

An old, fair dinkum bushie, tried and true.

Who’d just come in that morning for a normal week’s supplies.

You’ve guessed it folks – it was me old mate, Blue.

“Well pickle me old grandmother," Old Blue said to himself.

"If commonsense these buggers do not heed,

There’s going to be carnage in the rush to strip each shelf,

And the oldies will be crushed in the stampede."



At last the doors were opened – it was on for everyone

The mob surged forward with a mighty roar,

Then suddenly a noise rang out: “crack, crack ” just like a gun;

And the hoarders dropped in terror to the floor.

And there was Blue, the Bushie, eyeing off the prostrate throng

With a dirty great big stockwhip in his hand,

And right and left he cracked it with determination strong,

As before the entry doors he made his stand.



“Now listen here, you mongrels" he addressed the cowering mob,

There’s plenty here for all – but just play fair

‘Cause I’m given yez forewarnin’ that I’m makin’ it me job

To ensure the weakest folk first get their share."

They mumbled and they grumbled, but eventually the crowd

Agreed within his rules they would abide.

And the Woolies shop assistants stood as one and cheered aloud

As the old and the infirm were let inside.



Old Blue’s a local legend now – newcomers in the pub

Are told this tale in language most compelling

It’s recounted over drinks in every restaurant and club -

Though the story’s grown somewhat with every telling.

You’ll hear now how a blood-crazed mob, armed to the teeth, once planned

To launch an all-out terrorist attack

But Blue the Bushie faced them with a stockwhip in his hand,

And alone and unassisted drove them back.

Old Blue And The Sacmmers



Two scammers came to Old Blues house

As he sat in his dunny

They’d heard that he was ‘distancing’

And thought they’d make some money.



"We’re here from Social Services."

They told him – through the door

"They’ve sent us out to help those folk

Who can’t get to the store



They know that while you’re feeling crook

In here you’re wisely stopping,

And so they have commissioned us

To go and do your shopping."



We’ll run your errands straightaway –

just write us out a list,

Though on the cash to pay for it

I fear we must insist.



There’s no flies though upon Old Blue’

He wasn’t born last week

He’d pegged that pair for scammers

Soon as they began to speak



He wrote them out a shopping list -

Tea, pasta, rice and oats,

And pinned to it four rather grubby

Old ten dollar notes.



The scammers pocketed the dosh

But oh, their consternation,

When Old Blue casually remarked,

By way of conversation



‘Excuse those grotty tenners mates

Fair dinkum, it's not funny,

But for the past few days I’ve had

No bog roll for me dunny.



I’ve had to improvise and as

Me choices were quite sparse,

I used those bl**dy banknotes, mates,

To wipe me bl**dy a**e.

Old Blue Seeks Advice

Old Blue was getting worried, his supply of dunny books
Was shrinking in a most alarming way
He’d worked his way through Shakespeare – just the covers now were left
And Jane Austen was decreasing by the day.

The local lending library now had padlocks on the door.
And the bog roll situation wasn’t funny
There were rows of empty shelves in supermarkets everywhere -
No chance of soon replenishing his dunny.

The more he thought about all this this the more his worry grew
The poor bloke ended up in quite a state,
And since I wasn’t there just then to give him good advice,
He decided that he’d phone another mate.

This mate’s a bonza fellow – why, he’d give his life for you
But I wouldn’t put much credence in his views,
For although he’s always willing and he’ll do his best to help,
His paddock’s short a good few kangaroos.

He gave Old Blue’s dilemma some considerable thought
And called him back that very afternoon
“I’ve got the answer, mate,” He said “I’ve sussed the whole thing out.
I can’t believe I’ve solved it quite so soon”

Don’t bother stocking up with books – they won’t last anyway,
Already your supply’s begun to dwindle
Just hit the internet, old mate, and Google is your friend -
Find Amazon and buy yourself a Kindle.

Old Blue At The Pearly Gates.



Old Blue was feeling crook again – his sniffles had returned,

His nose was sore and runny and like fire his poor throat burned.

He told himself, it’s just the flu that’s bungin’ up me head

I won’t disturb the doc, just re-self-isolate instead.

But if there’s somethin’ I could take, me safety to ensure …….

And that was when he called to mind his patent virus cure.



He pulled a dozen tinnies out, and when the last he’d drunk

He staggered to his bedroom and collapsed upon his bunk

Time passed, but then – it seemed to Blue he’d barely closed his eyes -

He felt a strange sensation, and on opening his eyes,

He found that he was standing on a green and pleasant plain

Before a door so splendid that it nearly blew his brain.

It was fashioned out of of nacre - two great interlocking plates.

And he knew at once he stood before the fabled Pearly Gates.



And there stood old St Peter with a big book in his hand,

While round him stood, in robes of white, a large angelic band.

St. Peter checked his book and then he smiled upon Old Blue

“You’ve earned your passage mate,’ he said “I’m here to welcome you

He had a golden key, but as he opened up the door,

A stinking cloud descended and the angels all went “Phworrr!

It was thick and foul and sulpherous – you’d find no counterparts,

Believe me folk, its stench was worse than any of Blue's farts.



The creature that emerged from it was sinister and vile,

If Blue had had a body he’d have run a bloody mile,

He knew what he was dealing with– although it’s fair to say

It was probably the pitchfork that first gave the game away.

Old Nick approached St Peter “This old sinner’s mine,” he cried.

I’ve followed him for years now and I will not be denied.

Don’t let the sod deceive you with his ‘I’m so holy’ game

He’s a serial blashphemer and he takes God’s name in vain.”



St. Peter looked at Blue. He said “To tell the truth you must,

For in this book I’ve got your name inscribed among the just.

I’d like to let you in, but if there’s truth in this bombshell,

’I’ll have to lock the door on you and send you down to hell.”

“Well, stone the crows!” said Bluey, “Look, I’m just a simple bloke

I may have used some dodgy words and cracked the odd off-joke.

But I’ve never killed or cheated or pinched anybody’s money -

The only thing I've ever nicked was paper for me dunny



“He's doomed himself” the devil crowed. He poked Blue in the bum,

But suddenly a voice roared out. It struck its hearers dumb.

“Be gone, foul fiend” it ordered ‘Scuttle back into your hole.

“How dare you make presumptions on the value of a soull.

I give the judgement here ion who’ll be banished or let in

And it’s my right to overlook a very minor sin

A good heart is what matter’s here and this man’s is true blue

So, Peter, open up that gate and let the old bloke through.”



Old Nick was incandescent, he’d worked up a head of steam,

And now he let it rip it one horrendous primal scream

Then conjuring up a thunderbolt he rode it back to hell

But he left the scream behind him and, by crikey, did it swell.

It rattled round the Pearly gates, and rocked Blue to the core -

Rocked him right out of bed, in fact, and dumped him on the floor.

He sat with head still ringing from that otherworldly scream

“By cripes,” I he said, “I’m still alive. It was a bloody dream”



There’s more to this here story though, I should confess, you see,

The fearful noise that woke Blue up - well that was down to me.

I’d just popped in to check him and make sure he’d had his supper,

And as he was asleep I thought I’d make meself a cuppa

I found some milk and sugar and the tea bags and a mug.

But nowhere could I lay me hands on Blues electric jug.

There’s always a plan B though and for that I had to settle

And boil the water on the stove in Blue’s old whistling kettle.

Old Blue Writes His Memoirs.



Although just now Old Blue and I are both at home alone.

We like to keep in touch each day, if only on the phone.

There’s not much news, but still we seem to find enough to say,

And we give each other tips on how to pass the time away.

There’s lots of little ways to keep yourself from getting bored,

But this morning Blue came up with one that really left me floored.

“I’m goin’ to write a memoir – me life history” He said.

“For otherwise it will be lost as soon as I am dead.

The things I’ve done, the things I’ve seen the tales that I could tell

Would fill a dozen volumes – and I’m pretty sure they’d sell.”



Remember that God-awful time back in the last big drought,

When a bushfire came a-roarin through and almost burnt us out

And the fireys couldn’t reach us – they was stuck way down the track -

So I stood there with me garden hose and held the **bleep** back?

Or the day McSweeney’s bull got loose and terrorised the town,

And tried to make a shish kebab of poor old Mrs Brown,

Till I whipped me off me driza-bone and waved it at his head -

And he swung around and snorted and then charged at me instead.

And like a matador I kept that bugger on the run,

Until the vet could get there with his tranquiliser gun.



I smiled at all the stories – I’d heard most of them before,

And every time he’d told them they’d been stretched a little more.

“Blue,” I said “I reckon that you’re on a winner here.

Those anecdotes of yours, they just get better year by year

When word gets gets out your writin’ ‘em, you won’t have long to wait

Before a hoard of publishers are rattlin’ your gate.

And once they’re printed, stone the crows, You’re goin’ to make a squillion

The bookstores will be goin’ mad – they’ll sell a bloody million.

Trust me, old mate - I say this without fear of contradiction,

That book will be a truly monumental work - of fiction.”

Old Blue Writes His Memoirs.



Although just now Old Blue and I are both at home alone.

We like to keep in touch each day, if only on the phone.

There’s not much news, but still we seem to find enough to say,

And we give each other tips on how to pass the time away.

There’s lots of little ways to keep yourself from getting bored,

But this morning Blue came up with one that really left me floored.

“I’m goin’ to write a memoir – me life history” He said.

“For otherwise it will be lost as soon as I am dead.

The things I’ve done, the things I’ve seen the tales that I could tell

Would fill a dozen volumes – and I’m pretty sure they’d sell.”



Remember that God-awful time back in the last big drought,

When a bushfire came a-roarin through and almost burnt us out

And the fireys couldn’t reach us – they was stuck way down the track -

So I stood there with me garden hose and held the **bleep** back?

Or the day McSweeney’s bull got loose and terrorised the town,

And tried to make a shish kebab of poor old Mrs Brown,

Till I whipped me off me driza-bone and waved it at his head -

And he swung around and snorted and then charged at me instead.

And like a matador I kept that bugger on the run,

Until the vet could get there with his tranquiliser gun.



I smiled at all the stories – I’d heard most of them before,

And every time he’d told them they’d been stretched a little more.

“Blue,” I said “I reckon that you’re on a winner here.

Those anecdotes of yours, they just get better year by year

When word gets gets out your writin’ ‘em, you won’t have long to wait

Before a hoard of publishers are rattlin’ your gate.

And once they’re printed, stone the crows, You’re goin’ to make a squillion

The bookstores will be goin’ mad – they’ll sell a bloody million.

Trust me, old mate - I say this without fear of contradiction,

That book will be a truly monumental work - of fiction.”

Old Blue Gets A Dog



Old Blue’s full of surprises, yesterday he rang me up,

And “Guess what, mate,’ he told me, “I’ve just got meself a pup.

I found him by the roadside - thought at first that he was dead.

Some mongrel sod had shot him - heaven knows knows how far he’d fled.

Looks like the slug just clipped him though, I nursed him through night

And this morning he’s quite chirpy, so I think he’ll be all right.

“That bullet must have spooked him though, he seems a little feral,

But I reckon I can tame him – and I think I’ll call him Errol.



I swent to Coles and grabbed two cans of dogfood from their shelf,

Then drove to Blue’s to see this new arrival for meself.

I found the little fella fast asleep on Bluey’s bed.

“He’s been goin’ mad all morning and he’s tuckered out” he said.

He’ll be much calmer once I’ve had a chance to train him up,

They say you need to start ’em young, and he’s still just a pup.

He can’t be more than five months old or just a little better

And by the looks of him, I’d swear his sire was a red setter.



I looked down at the puppy curled up snugly on the bed.

His coat was undeniably a ‘setter’ shade of red.

Full grown, he’d be a big dog and a handsome one as well,

But maybe quite a handful – I guessed only time would tell.

As I watched, he gave a start, then opened wide his eyes,

Leaped off the bed and stood as though befuddled with surprise.

Then whoosh, out of the bedroom, straight across the kitchen floor,

And into the backyard he fled, right through the flyscreen door.



I was just about to follow him, when Old Blue shook his head,

“He’ll be OK, the back gate’s locked, he can’t get out,” he said.

“And once he’s settled down a bit he’ll come back in – you’ll see.”

He filled his new electric jug . “Let’s have a cup of tea.”

We drank it in the kitchen with some toast and vegemite.

And discussed what might have made the little fella so uptight,

But we‘d barely touched on cruelty and animal abuse,

When a noise erupted from the yard like all hell breaking loose.



We dashed outside to see what could be making all the row,

And, folks you must believe me when I tell you here and now

There is absolutely nothing so hysterical and manic

As a dozen backyard chooks in a demented state of panic.

The chookpen was in chaos – there were bodies left and right

And survivors flapping wildly in a vain attempt at flight

Their wings beat at the wire-mesh in a frenzy of despair

And a hideous cacophony of squawking filled the air.



The pen was thick with feathers from the ceiling to the floor

And amidst the mess stood Errol – with a chicken in his jaw.

The little sod looked **bleep**-a-hoop - I swear he wore a smirk,

And as poor Blue stood gobsmacked and surveyed his dreadful work,

He wagged a red and bushy tail. That’s when it dawned on me

How seriously we’d both misjudged the bugger’s pedigree.



It was really very simple when you stopped to think through,

But how the hell, I wondered, would I break it to Old Blue,

The poor old bloke is going to get the nastiest of shocks

When he learns his little puppy is a full grown bloody fox.

Old Blue And The Rabbits.



Far be it from me folks to criticise the Easter Bunny.

But Blue’s opinion of him at this moment is not sunny.

This isn’t due to Easter eggs, it quickly must be said.

But the havoc Bunny’s mates have wreaked on Old Blue’s garden bed.

They’ve found the greens he planted to replace that you-know-what,

And the buggers raid it every night and munch ‘em on the spot.

He’s shot them and he’s trapped them and he’s even put down bait,

But the little sods won’t give up – and it’s left him most irate



Last time I saw him, though, he had a grin from ear to ear.

And “Listen, mate,” he said, “I’ve had this brilliant idea

It’ll save me veggie garden: peas and beans and all the rest,

And given time, could totally wipe out this bloody pest.

“You must have heard the news,” he said “about that New York zoo.

And how a tiger there has caught this Covid-thingie too.

Now if a tough old tiger can succumb with such great ease.

It shouldn’t be too hard to give a rabbit the disease.



If someone went and caught some – fifty ought to be enough -

And injected ’em with some of that Coronavirus stuff,

Then turned ‘em loose – they’d pass it on. And I’ll bet any money

Before too long this land would not contain one single bunny.

Now the last thing that I wanted was to make Blue feel a fool.

But to fan this fond illusion would have been too bloody cruel.

The old bloke looked so happy with his confident prognosis,

But a bell was ringing in my head – it said Myxomatosis.



So I explained why this was not the way to win his war.

And how the Government had tried a virus once before,

And how at first they’d hailed it as a game-changing event,

When the rabbit population dropped by ninety five percent.

But alas, though it had swept through every rabbitty community,

It left behind survivors who had natural immunity,

And since it didn’t change that most distinctive of their habits

Their numbers soon recovered ‘cause the buggers bred like …. rabbits.



Well, poor old Blue just looked at me and never said a word,

His face fell and I knew he’d grasped the truth of what he’d heard.

At last “Ah well,” he muttered, and he gave a little sigh,

“Looks like I’ll have to rack me brains for something else to try.”

He’s never mentioned it again, I understand instead,

He’s built a sturdy wiremesh fence around his garden bed.

Reality, I fear, has put the mockers on his dream

Of a patent Covid-19 pest extermination scheme.

The inspiration (though not the sggestion) for todays episode came from my big softie of a huband.



Old Blue Feeds A Stray



In English country gardens, so they tell me, you can find

The secret signs that tramps have left for others of their kind,

Signs that say “you’re sure to get a kindly welcome here”

Or “This householder’s a dragon, I’d advise you to stay clear.”

And I’ve come to the conclusion, having thought the whole thing through,

That cats here in Australia employ this system too.

I’d swear the buggers have a sign near Old Blue’s garden gate

That says “This bloke’s a pushover. You’ve hit the jackpot, mate.”



My journey to enlightenment began a few weeks back

We were on Old Blue’s verandah with a coldie and a snack

And as we sat there chatting, all at once, to my surprise,

A cat strolled through the garden – one of quite impressive size:

A haughty looking, multicoloured furball of a cat.

“Strewth, mate!” I said to Bluey, “Where the hell did you find that,”



“The poor old sod’s a stray”, he said,” it’s round here day and night.”

I call it Feather Duster – ‘cause it looks the part all right.

I couldn’t let the poor thing starve – I’ve got a heart you know,

So occasionally I feed it just the odd small meal or so.”

“The odd small meal”: I had to laugh when Bluey told me that.

I pointed to the row of bowls alongside his doormat.

He looked a little sheepish “Oh, that’s just me little test.

To see which brand of catfood the poor creature likes the best.



It needs some little comforts, living as it does,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure it’s sleeping down the back in me old shed.”

And that, folks, was the moment I first heard the warning bell,

For the cat I’d seen was unmistakably a tortoiseshell.

And I knew it was a certainty, not just some old wives’ tale.

That tortoiseshells were very seldom likely to be male.

I voiced my fear; I looked at Blue; and he looked back at me.

“Oh, **bleep**,”He said “I think, perhaps we’d better go and see.”



Blue’s old shed is derelict, it’s storage days are done,

He hasn’t used it since he bought his brand new Stratco one.

The window glass is broken and the door hangs open wide,

But despite the long abandonment there’s not much room inside.

It’s full of rotting newspapers and junk in plastic bags.

A basket on the workbench holds forgotten cleaning rags.

And there, amidst old jocks and socks and worn out woollen mittens,

Was where we found the secret nest of Feather Duster’s kittens.



I looked at Blue, he looked at me “I know’, he said “I know.

They’re small and cute and fluffy, but, you’re right, they’ll have to go.

But how do we dispose of them, it makes me poor heart weep

Just to think of simply drowning ‘em or putting ‘em to sleep.”

I mentioned the shire Ranger, but Blue stopped me with a frown.

“If that sod gets his hands on them, he’ll have them all put down.

So we went back home to my place and I combed the internet’

In search of a solution that we hadn’t thought of yet.



And at last I found a rescue group: we rang them for advice

And they said they’d take the kittens – and the mother – for a price.

They had a list of clients wanting kittens so it seemed,

But we’d have to wait a week or two until they could be weaned.

So Old Blue watched those kittens like a fussy mother hen,

And kept feeding Feather Duster, till at last the day came when

He rang me up and told me, without fuss or carry-on,

“The rescue people came today and picked them up. They’ve gone.”



He didn’t sound too cut up, but with Blue it’s hard to say,

So I thought I’d better pop around and check he was okay.

I knocked at his front door and I called out “Hey Blue, it’s me.”

I thought he’d come to open it - he always does, you see.

But he called back. “In the lounge room mate. I can’t get up just now,

But come in, grab yourself a beer and join me anyhow.”

So, anxiously, I stepped inside, uncertain what I’d find,

But the tableau there before me - well, it kind of rocked my mind,



For there sat Blue upon the lounge, contented as you please,

And Feather Duster, fast asleep, lay purring on his knees.

That ‘take the mother too’ idea had never gone ahead,

The cunning cat had led Blue down the garden path instead.

The artful little minx had wormed her way into his heart,

And I’d swear that she’d been planning this right from the very start.

She’s microchipped and registered, shes been to see the vet.

And Blue has somehow got himself another flamin’ pet.

Old Blue And The Mice.



Old Blue came round the other day, to ask for my advice.

He had a little problem, and the name of it was mice.

They’d bred up unmolested in his old abandoned shed,

And were now inside his house – and it was doing in his head.

“There’s squillions of the little sods” he told me in frustration’

And I’m buggered if I know how to resolve the situation.

I’ve caught a few in traps, and Feather Duster does her best,

But I reckon it’d take a bomb to clean out all the rest.



I said “that pest controller bloke could surely give ‘em hell.”

But Blue reckoned all those chemicals might do him in as well.

“Well, mate.” I said, ‘The only thing that’s left then, I suppose.

Is to find something non-toxic that will get right up their nose.”

I lent him some more traps – it was the best that I could do;

And I reckoned that was that; but never underrate Old Blue;

He’s just rung up to tell me that he took that seed I’d sown,

And devised an eco-friendly mouse deterrent of his own.



As regular as clockwork, at the end of every day

He collects the kitty litter out of Feather Duster’s tray;

And soaks it in a bucketful of water overnight,

To produce the secret potion that he uses in his fight.

Then early every morning, once he’s had his cup of tea,

With trusty spraygun in his hand he stalks his enemy,

And sprays each nook and cranny that might be their habitat

With his special his mouse-deterrent - which he’s calling eau-de-chat.

Old Blue On Anzac Day.



Me old mate Blue’s a veteran – a sacrificial lamb -

He won the ‘Birthday Lottery’ and went to Vietnam’

He doesn’t talk about it much – too painful still I fear.

He lost a few good mates there, but he honours them each year.

Every twenty fifth of April, Blue puts on his Sunday best,

Rubs up his service medals and displays them on his chest.

Then acknowledging his duty and respect that must be paid,

He salutes his fallen comrades in the Anzac Day parade.



This year, alas, there’ll be no march. We’re all in isolation,

Commemorations have been cancelled right across the nation.

And the first thing that occurred to me when this sad news came through

Was the devastating impact it would have on poor old Blue.

I called on him at once. But when he met me at the door,

“It’s OK, mate,” he said, “I should have let you know before.

I was really feeling down but now I think I’ve found a way

To do the right thing by me mates this coming Anzac Day.



I’ve spoken to a bloke I know who’s in the RSL

And he reckons I can manage it, though only time will tell,

He’s explained the fundamentals and he’s coached me on the phone,

But the rest of it is up to me - all on me Pat Malone.

I’ll be like that lizard drinkin' for the coming week or two -

Flat out with all me practisin’ to see this project through;

And I don’t want to offend you, mate, but really there’s no way,

I’ll have time for any visitors till after Anzac Day.



Concerned and rather puzzled, I walked back towards my car.

The way Old Blue was acting: it was really quite bizarre.

I was wondering if I should return and do some serious talking,

When my eardrums were assaulted by a sudden dreadful squawking.

It sounded like a rusty gate or, even worse than that,

As if someone in Old Blue’s house was strangling a cat;

And all at once I understood without a shred of doubt,

Exactly what this masterplan of his was all about.



I left him to his practise as I’d promised him I would,

I didn’t even call him – though I wished like hell I could.

But I sat at home and worried as the days went slowly by;

Old Blue had set his heart on this. I knew how hard he’d try,

But how would the poor b*gger feel if in the end he failed?

And then, triumphantly he rang. Persistence had prevailed!

” I’ve nailed it, mate,” he boasted “It was tough, but never fear,

Old Blue will do his duty by his fallen mates this year”



So if, you’re out this Anzac Day around the crack of dawn,

And you see a shadowy figure standing on Old Bluey’s lawn,

And you think you hear a bugle and that bugle’s plaintive note,

Brings tears into your eyes and a big lump into your throat.

And you feel a sad and solemn kind of presence in the air.

That makes you want to bow your head and offer up prayer.

It won’t be a dream you’re having, nor some lonely Anzac ghost.

But Blue, remembering his dead and sounding the last post.

Old Blue's taking a well-earned rest today, so I've penned this instead.



The Ballad Of Covid-19



When Covid-19 first appeared in the West,

It left all the citizens very depressed.

They’d dealt with the flu and had lurgies galore,

But they’d never seen anything like this before.

“I’m silent and sneaky, I’m cunning and mean.”

And I’m coming to get you” said Covid-19



It came in by boat and it came in by plane,

With stealth it embarked on its evil campaign,

And the sandgropers watched it, dismayed and perplexed,

Wondering who it would carry off next.

“I’m silent and sneaky, I’m cunning and mean.”

And I’ve only just started” said Covid-19



But Premier McGowan went on the attack,

And explained to us daily just how to fight back

With medical experts to help spread the word,

And Auslan interpreters to flip it the bird.

“So what if it’s silent and sneaky and mean

We will not be beaten by Covid-19.”



He didn’t hold back he pulled out all the stops,

He shut down the pubs and he closed all the shops.

And finally issued the strictest of orders,

To close down both state and new regional borders.

We’re more cut off now than we ever have been

But we’re closing our borders to Covid-19



We’ve all been instructed to stay safe at home,

And woe betide those who unauthorised roam,

Or gather in numbers that flout the decree

We’re starving the virus of victims, you see.

So there’s hardly a soul on the streets to be seen,’

We’ve gone into hiding from Covid-19



And it seems to be working, we’ve all held our nerve,

And it looks like we’ve finally flattened the curve.

The balance of power has significantly shifted

So all those restrictions can slowly be lifted.

And now they are testing a brand new vaccine,

We’re coming to get you old Covid-19.

Hiatus



I’ve reached a hiatus, as, sadly to tell,

I’ve still got ideas, but they simply won’t ‘gel’

And I’m fond of Old Blue, so there’d be nothing worse,

Than cheapening him with indifferent verse.

So I’m taking a break; but dispel your concerns,

It’s only until inspiration returns.



P.S. I have just had Old Blue on the phone,

And he’s asked me to pass on these words of his own;

"Stay safe and stay happy, hooroo and good luck,

From Blue, Feather Duster, the chooks and the duck."