Guddling

Trash! Smash balderdash,

Gibberish, all mish-mash,

Masquerading as the news.

Fiction, facts, we’re owed the truth.

Pish! Posh, all that dosh,

Dishing dirt, a load of tosh,

Captivating, cunning plan,

Doled out fodder for wee man.

Big man runs the well-oiled wheels,

Sleight of hand, we watch, he steals,

Steam, press, turn, depress with force,

One-sided justifies divorce.

Free to question, new release,

Biased brethern, big bro’ pleased.

Watch little man as he cuts chains,

Asking why, alive again.

Hubble, bubble, all this trouble,

Got our countries in a guddle.

Ickle, tickle, brand new hatch,

Easy-peasy, stand by, catch.

Fishy fish, caught with intent, by

Fishermen with hearts well meant.

Then we can fry them with some garlic and a lovely lemon zest. Hmmhmm. Smack!

 

Trashed

Two hours to muse

And trash, peruse.

Mags that dish the dirt.

Callous words and pictures,

Designed to cut and hurt.

 

Celebrities, I know not names,

Their efforts grant

Esteem and fame

And public humiliation.

 

Her hair’s a mess,

Look at her dress,

What a fright she looks!

Women mostly, though

Some men, warrant

Inclusion in these books.

 

I never see these mags at all

Except when hair needs gutting

Colour, style and, all the while,

Not just my hair gets cutting.

 

I know that some seek publicity,

Any type at all,

So, fair game seems to be the name

Of reporters; a free-for-all.

 

Rebuke and trash,

Cameras flash,

Perhaps they’re photoshopped.

I’m just so glad

That I’m not one whose name

Is lifted and then dropped.

 

An awful life,

Though some may think

Fame is worth the fortune,

But picked and prodded,

Talked about

Would be my cup of poison.

 

Mr Wilde was wrong.

 

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