Friday, 29 March 2024

The Trump Media Stock Bubble by Matthew Stevenson

The Trump Media Stock Bubble

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MARCH 29, 2024

The Trump Media Stock Bubble

BY MATTHEW STEVENSON

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Photo by Jonathan Cooper

Just when you thought it was safe to get back into the stock market, Donald Trump has managed to hack into the National Association of Securities Dealers Automatic Quotation System (aka NASDAQ, an over-the-counter stock exchange) and make it an accomplice to his latest pump-and-dump scheme: hyping worthless assets on Wall Street until he can sell his shares and walk away from the dumpster fire. And while he’s at it, candidate Trump can use a listed company to funnel dark money into either his presidential campaign or his legal entanglements, depending on which squeaky wheel needs the most grease. 

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Here’s the back story:

Until recently Digital World Acquisition Corporation (DWIC) was a special purpose acquisition company. Known in the trade as a SPAC, its “special purpose” as a listed company was to raise acquisition funds and then go in search of an idea on which to blow the money. 

SPACs are popular because they have little regulation and fast track access, once they have acquired assets, for trading on a public exchange.

In this case, after raising its $300 million stake, DWIC had only one idea, which was to merge with Trump Media & Technology Group (TMTG), the owner of Truth Social, the social media mouthpiece that the former president uses to shout into the void. He started it after Twitter (aka X) closed his account following what Trump called “a beautiful day” (January 6):

In a prospectus, Trump Media boasted:

Truth Social is designed to provide a “Big Tent” alternative to existing social media platforms that are dominated by the big tech monopoly (Twitter and Facebook). While we expect that initial users will be catalyzed by the existing Trump universe, the future of the platform audience lies in being open and inviting to a wide range of ideologies. Content from news and politics to sports, comedy, and entertainment aims to unite independents, liberals, libertarians, and conservatives alike.

In reality, TMTG is a broken radio with one channel tuned 24/7 to the World According to Trump.

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Under the terms of the recent merger, Trump contributed Truth Social—his struggling/tapped out/floundering one-man social media group—to the joint enterprise while DWIC came to party with its $300 million in cash and its NASDAQ listing. The ticker stock symbol was changed to DJT, the initials of someone who shall always be named.

A big reason—besides old-style influence peddling—for DWIC to throw its $300 million at Trump’s dead-on-arrival tech firm is that one of the DWIC investors is Jeff Yass, the so-called richest man in Pennsylvania who directly and indirectly owns 15% of TikTok, that which Democrats’ pending legislation would force its Chinese shareholders to sell. Here Yass is buying a little professional liability insurance for his Chinese partners.

Since the TMTG-DWIC deal went through in mid-March, shares in DJT have soared and are now trading at between $60 and $70 a share, which values Donald Trump’s personal stake (58%) in the combined new company at close to $4 billion, which is a good day’s work considering that Trump put up nothing (other than his tweets) to found Truth Social in 2022.

Presumably, that windfall will come in handy when he has to pay off E. Jean Carroll and Tish James, or when he has to buy loose cigarettes, the currency of choice in most Club Fed prisons.

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According to U.S. law, individuals (Jeff Yass among them) are limited to giving a presidential candidate $3,300 per election cycle, but the magic of merging a $300 million SPAC with Trump’s money-losing TMTG media company is that it allows anyone with a brokerage account to give Donald Trump unlimited amounts of cash—without anyone at the Federal Election Commission asking to inspect the fine print on the contribution checks.

Think about it: Saudi sovereign funds, Russian oligarchs, Sicilian mobsters, Nigerian oil ministers, hedge-funders, private-equity bros, and MAGA-loving billionaires now have a direct, unregulated money pipeline into the presumptive Republican nominee. And the last time we checked, Trump was so short on cash that he was begging the court to reduce the amount he needs to post as a bond to appeal the judgment of Justice Arthur F. Engoron, who ruled that the Trump Organization needs to pay $454 million in restitution for fraud committed against New York state.

In theory (at least according to that text book you read in a class on corporate finance), money invested in open-market DJT shares does not immediately go into his excellency’s shallow pockets or fund more hush-money payments to porn stars. 

But in reality, DJT is nothing more than a special purpose corporation in which investors can buy shares in the former president, the first candidate to list his soul in an initial public offering. 

Let’s hope his presidency can deliver $7 billion in intangible assets to his shareholders (they used to be called voters), because the TMTG media company in which they are nominally investing their money at $60-70 a share is most likely another Trump castle in the air.

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Granted, the stock market valuation for TMTG is (as I write) $7.65 billion, but let’s look closer at the current financial statements—although not much is available on Truth Social, other than accumulated loses. 

In the first nine months of 2023, Trump Media reported revenue of about $3.4 million while reporting, according to Fortune, a $49 million loss in the same period, which would have wiped out any capital that the company had accumulated.

When it started broadcasting Trump’s tweets to the world in 2022, Truth Social had about $38 million in liabilities (debt and equity) raised from various Trump campaign stalwarts (but not Trump himself).

According to Reuters, “Truth Social’s early backers include six businessmen outside of the Silicon Valley mainstream — including two executives from an oil company and a gym chain, several Republican donors, a former U.S. ambassador to Portugal and the head of a mail-order fruitcake company.”

It noted that as of October 2023, “Trump had 4.37 million followers on Truth Social…compared to the more than 88 million followers he had on Twitter when the platform permanently suspended him.” 

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When panhandling (the fruitcake market?) for clients and investors, Trump Media boasted that it would have 56 million users by 2024 and 81 million by 2026. To date the company has less than 5 million “users”, and it is difficult to see how Trump plans to monetize someone who swipes past one of his crazed posts. As in:

I’m not running to terminate the ACA, AS CROOKED JOE BUDEN DISINFORMATES AND MISINFORMATES ALL THE TIME, I’m running to CLOSE THE BORDER, STOP INFLATION, MAKE OUR ECONOMY GREAT, STRENGTHEN OUR MILITARY, AND MAKE THE ACA, or OBAMACARE, AS IT IS KNOWN, MUCH BETTER, STRONGER, AND FAR LESS EXPENSIVE…

Assuming TMTG does have five million “users”, by the company’s own admission only about a quarter of that number, or 1.25 million, will become paying subscribers. 

According to the company’s economic models, on average such subscribers will spin off $5.56 per head, which means that Trump Media is currently generating average annual revenue of about $6-7 million, not nearly enough to cover the company’s gold-enameled expenses.

Yet the stock market values DJT today at $7 billion, which gives Trump Media an enterprise-to-revenue ratio of about 1,666 times. By comparison, Walmart’s EV/revenue ratio is less than 1 times. In the overall stock market, the average ratio of EV to sales is 3.23 times. We’re in the realm of Dutch tulip pricing.

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Why is a stock—with accumulated losses and a capital infusion of only $300 million—now trading at a $7 billion valuation?

I will give you both a technical and political reason for the exaggerated value:

Technically, DJT is what is now called a meme stock—a darling of that network of day traders (sitting in windowless rooms in their grandmother’s basement?) who speculate on anything—cryptocurrencies, stocks, options, pork bellies, Monday Night Football, you name it—that looks vulnerable to price manipulation.

In this case, what has drawn in the meme day traders is the TMTG short position (it has over 10% in what is called “short interest”) and the relatively low percentage of outstanding shares that constitute the DJT “float,” the shares that are not restricted and can be freely traded. Another incentive: Trump’s own shares in the company (58%) cannot be traded for six months, unless he’s given permission by his board. 

Here the meme day traders have “squeezed” the short sellers who are betting (quite sensibly) that Trump Media is a bucket shop with few customers and lots of Trump insider trading, not even worth the cash on its balance sheet.

To sell shares short, traders need to hold physical shares (not easy to find in this illiquid market). Then when they come to close out a position going against them in a rising stock market, the “shorts” can be caught out and “squeezed” to pay exorbitant prices to cover. It is these events that can create a stock price bubble, such as we’re seeing today.

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For now, the short-squeezing memes are feasting, but they are benefitting too from Trump godfathers who have a political interest to use DJT as a market drain to funnel money into the presumptive Republican nominee who might otherwise be heading toward a liquidity crisis, if not bankruptcy, and jeopardize electoral success in November.

Trump’s previous grift on his supporters cash was to raise money for PACs and other campaign vehicles, and then to use that bacon to pay his lawyers, court fines, porn stars, and personal expenses. But—to invert Austin Powers—why make millions when you can make billions in “pumping-and-dumping” publicly-traded shares?

Plus by IPO-ing himself, Trump has finally managed to slip the bonds of campaign finance regulation, and in promoting DJT he can raise money from anyone interested in acquiring a stake in his coming presidency or, more likely, predator’s ball (similar to what the American writer Edgar Allan Poe described in his 1842 story “The Masque of the Red Death”). 

It’s unlikely that MAGA supporters in red hats showing up at Iowa rallies with flags have pushed the price of TMTG to a $7 billion valuation (when on paper the company looks worthless), but assume that dark money lobbyists, Republican rounders, PAC middlemen, influence peddlers, and Yass players—both domestic and foreign—are all in the game of “Who Wants Donald to be a Billionaire?”

Sadly, there is no prospectus for such a public offering, but would it not be fitting to see these words printed in a 10-K report: “For sale are fractionalized shares in a forthcoming American presidency, in which investors can directly own a percentage of the chief executive officer, who will run the country according to the wishes of his shareholders.”

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How does the DJT story end? Let’s put it this way: it will not be pretty.

If Trump wants to cash in his newfound billions to pay off the likes of Tish James or E. Jean Carroll, he will need the permission of his board of directors, which is the usual collection of Trump placemen, including his pliant son Don Jr. So they will rubber stamp any decision to let Trump get around his six-month “lockup” on selling shares.

But here’s the catch: the moment the basement memes get wind that Trump (a 58% owner) is himself a block seller, they will vanish from their chat rooms and their day trading in the shares, and the DJT price will collapse. My guess would be from around $70 today to under $1, as no model I run for the enterprise makes the company worth even $1 a share—unless it is as a warrant to a political pay off.

Why should a poorly-managed online company that is losing millions annually with just one windbag client—a tired old man on his way to jail, even if it is via the White House—be worth anything? 

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The other way that DJT ends, in both farce and tragedy, is when the existing shareholders begin fighting like cats in a bag—unhappy that in exchange for no invested capital (other than some of his nastygram tweets) Trump wound up with 58% of the shares in a $7 billion dollar company and then decided to stiff some of the footmen who brought him to Cinderella’s ball.

We know from the January 6 caper that Trump refused to pay his “personal attorney” Rudolph Giuliani, and I am sure among the angel investors (who put up the seed money for Truth Social) there will be some bitterness when Trump’s forced sale of his shares tanks the company, rendering their stakes worthless.

Keep in mind too that Trump views public companies as vehicles that exist to absorb his debts, not to share his gains, and he will do his best to turn TMTG into a private overdraft checking account. 

Given Trump’s controlling 58% shareholding in DJT, chairmanship of the board filled with yes men and family members, and presidential candidacy, you might well think that regulators such as the Securities and Exchange Commission would open an inquiry into the propriety of these “pump-and-dump” arrangements, although for the moment the SEC seems to be blessing all this celebrity stockjobbing.

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Here’s another hint that all might not be well in TMTG’s capital accounts. A report in Fortune indicated that last year Truth Social incurred interest costs of $37 million, a figure that makes zero sense when trying to analyze the company’s balance sheet (which, as best as I can see, showed little third-party debt in 2023). 

But it may indicate the Trump’s angel investors have used Truth Social promissory notes as a way to drain money from the start up, on the good chance that if it were to fail, their money would be that of a preferential stakeholder, not chump equity holders last in the creditor line.

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To the financial press, the $7 billion run-up in the share price of Trump Media is a rags-to-riches story of a down-on-his-luck former president who is being hounded in the courts striking it rich with brilliant market timing and an unshakeable belief in the American dream. 

Instead, all that’s for sale at DJT is out-of-the-money call options on a future Trump presidency—from which he will cash the premiums today. Down the road, investors, voters, and citizens of the republic will be left holding his empty, faux Louis Vuitton bags.

Matthew Stevenson is the author of many books, including Reading the RailsAppalachia Spring, andThe Revolution as a Dinner Party, about China throughout its turbulent twentieth century. His most recent books are Biking with Bismarck and Our Man in Iran. Out now: Donald Trump’s Circus Maximus and Joe Biden’s Excellent Adventure, about the 2016 and 2020 elections.

A moment of Silence in a Busy World, spotted this being read so Ive brought it back



Tuesday 20 June 2017

A Moment of Silence in a Busy World

A Moment Of Silence in a Busy World ©
By Michael Casey
I was going to write this in 2016, I just put the title down but never wrote the actual piece, I found it last night when I wanted to put something on my site without writing a new piece as I was too tired. I have to pace myself nowadays, I am at my best when I am striding up the road to the shops, just like John Travolta, though obviously looking much much better. But I have my computer and I can still write and sometimes delight you all.
That’s the context,  I also have a German invasion of my site at the moment so thanks to them ist serh Gutt, if they forgive my bad German. Maybe I’ll be a Cult in Germany too. Now to today’s chat, A Moment of Silence in a Busy World. This is exactly what we need in UK at the moment, Silence in a Busy World. Ask Theresa May, I’m sure she will agree.
When you’ve had a busy day at work, or just taken the dogs for a walk, we have a couple who are dog walkers in my street, then shoes off and feet up is really really appreciated. After the arguing is over, in Politics or in the home, a period of silence or reflection is always good. You hide in your bedroom and maybe listen to music, or just curl up into a ball, and let the silence wash over you and absolve your anger/sins/hate.
Later on, maybe in the middle of the night you sneak down stairs to the fridge, there you meet your sister, no words are exchanged. But you hand her a bottle of Stella Artois and you toast your sisterhood. Hoping dad won’t be angry that his student daughters have had the Stella Artois he was saving for the MU match.
Then you put the telly on and watch the Kardasians together. Silently watching the telly, all sins are forgotten and the love levels return to maximum. 
If anybody says a bad word about my sister I’ll knock their block off, I am a judo black belt after all. My last boyfriend left a black mark in my heart, it was he who taught me judo, Putin was his nickname, as he was always Putin everybody on the floor, on the mat.  It was my sister, my best friend sat beside me who put me together again.
So here sat in the silence together, we are one, united, we are sisters. I did return the favour when that bastard Barry broke her heart. I broke his nose and arm in fact. I threw him as hard as I could straight into a letter box, his blood adding to the colour of the letter box. I did call an ambulance, I am not an animal, but he took his punishment like a man, he’d never live it down that a girl had beaten him up. So he said he tripped.
I’m  happy now, content, me and my sister united as one, this Stella Artois is not very nice, we prefer Baileys, we would pour it down the sink, but its a sin to waste food or Stella Artois, so we’ll have to finish it, even if it takes two whole episodes of the Kardasians. Hick
Peace after the storm, make up and chill with a beer and the Kardasians, or just sit together doing nothing, just being together alone and in love. Love has its many many forms, but after the Noise whatever form that Noise takes a Moment of Silence in a Busy World is always the medicine. Failing that watch the MU match on tv with your daughters, and what’s left of your Stella Artois from the fridge.


Hong Kong still reading me, so THANK YOU

hope you are having a Good Friday

I need a wash and shave myself and a haircut and eyebrow trim, otherwise

I'm GORGEOUS, why can I hear laughter from HK






I'm on Saint Anthony's Prayer list too

hoping I can avoid dialysis and my Kidneys improve enough to avoid it

my mother used to say my brother would lose his backside if it was not tied onto him

Saint Anthony finds things....

No publisher found me yet, even  though 162 plus countries do read me

Nobody wants to pay even a few pennies

syndication would be a God send

2 student daughters and all that

and pay for transport IF I finally had to have 3 times a week dialysis

But God is good as my mum used to day so

here's a nice story for you all

and if you are in Hong Kong you can email hello

a story that made me cry, from 8 years ago, I'd forgotten it

Sunday 8 May 2016

Pussy the Pain Eating Cat



Pussy the Pain Eating Cat ©
By Michael Casey

Pussy was a moggy, a battered and abandoned moggy, thrown over a high wall next to a stream, expected to drown and die. Cruelty beyond words, absolute evil cruelty. They say cats have nine lives, this one must have had 99 x 9 lives.  Pussy landed in the grounds of an old people’s home, Eve spotted the sack of rubbish and scooped it up and was going to put it in their trade dustbin, only the sack shivered.

So Eve took it inside and placed the cat by the radiator in the day room, the residents looked at the wet and shivering cat. A cat was a novelty, something new to brighten their day. Something to cheer them on the long or short journey to the end of their time. One by one the residents came to look and wish the pussy good luck. I hope she survives, I hope she gets better they all prayed. Old Annie was knitting a scarf and decided the cat, their new friend would be better with it on her. So old Annie tore it off her needles and covered the cat with it. As she did so she shed a tear, the  tear fell on the cat like a splash of Holy Water.

Now a cat knows what Love is, so Pussy as the cat was christened, felt the love all around her. After a month Pussy was back to her normal self, and having a Home as a home was great.  Pussy was like Goldilocks trying all the chairs and beds for comfort, the residents in the home had new focus now, a cat was something special. The Love between them grew and grew, you don’t have to be a genius to know that people, old people need love too, a gentle kind of love, a patience kind of love, the kind mentioned in the famous Bible passage about honouring your father in old age. 

Pussy knew which resident needed an extra bit of love, so she’d sit on their lap or on the armrest of their chair. Pussy purred and the residents smiled back, it was a symbiotic relationship. The mood lifted with Pussy around, Eve loved her residents they were her life, watching them as they slide to their death, she really loved them, now Pussy shared in the loving.

Georgia was an old West Indian lady who must have been in her nineties, she had loved to laugh, she had been full of stories, but now the big C, cancer was attacking her. She had regular pain killers, a supply of morphine which Eve administered, Eve hid her tears from Georgia her smile was her armour. Pussy could tell, an animal can always tell, so Pussy decided that Georgia needed extra special treatment.

Pussy sat on Georgia’s lap and purred, it was cat prayers, the cat was not sitting on the mat, the cat was sitting on the lap. Georgia sang from her heart from her very soul, quietly ever so quietly, she was old and in pain, but she still believed with all her pained heart, so she sang spirituals. Pussy purred the chorus. There were only two of them but they were a choir.

We all know about the power of love, Jennifer Rush has sung about it, we have all been moved by song. So the rest of the residents watched and were moved. If only they knew the words. They gathered around and listened, badly singing the words, out of place and out of time. It was like a scene from the Studio Ghibli film, Ponyo, where the old people live under water.

Love and Hope and cat purring, Pussy was a conductor, the residents were the choir, old Annie clattered away on the knitting needles. They would make old Georgia better, she had to live at least until she got a telegram from the Queen for her 100th Birthday, nothing less would do.

Eve went to Mass and told her friend Undoopa from the Shona choir about the events in the old people’s home. Undoopa was intrigued and said if Eve wanted to invite her to tea then she’d be more than happy to come. So next Tuesday afternoon Undoopa would come.

Undoopa arrived with her sister Sondoopa in tow, Shona sisters stick together. After helping with the resident’s tea they went to see Georgia, Pussy was there purring away. Then the singing began, Georgia’s quiet prayer accompanied by Pussy’s purring. Now a Shona sister is a strong and powerful thing, one is dangerous, two is like an earthquake.

LOUD very LOUD singing erupted from the Shona  sisters, at first Pussy was scared, but then the cat became a lion and began to roar. It may have been because Pussy had a  lick of the morphine, but whatever the reason this cat was COOOOOL, for 5 hours he sang with the Shona sisters. Love and Hope and Pray erupting from them like a volcano, the residents rocked in their armchairs, banging spoons on their trays. Georgia smiled more and more. The bastard cancer would never beat her spirit, she was on fire and the whole of the brigade would never put her out.

Georgia was so happy, the Shona sisters said their goodbyes, then Eve shared a bottle of Baily’s Irish Cream with the residents to calm them down from their high. Pussy got the dregs from the bottle, this cat had got its cream and licked it.

Now the Shona sisters prayed for Georgia every day, then when they were singing at a wedding for Fr. Cownley they told all the rest of the full Shona choir. So as they were all there they jumped on the bus and went to the old people’s home.

40 Shona singers with drums too invaded the old people’s home, Pussy fled to on top of the bookcase. But the sound of the low like distant thunder singing encouraged Pussy to sit on Georgia’s lap as usual. Then the women began to sing with drums beating too. Now how this worked I do not know, I am just a writer not a doctor, but I do know that love is the best medicine, my own dad came back from the dead 20 years ago, after we had picked hymns for his funeral.

So the sound of music mixed with Shona love cured Georgia’s cancer, and she went on to live till she was 110, she got her telegram from the Queen and 10 more, making 11, Georgia always said as she was West Indian she’s need 11 cards, enough to make a cricket team.

As for Pussy the cat, she lived till she was 30, the residents loved her so much they willed her to keep on living. None of the residents seemed to have any pain after the Shona had cured Georgia with their Christian singing, Eve said Pussy ate all the pain, she wasn’t a mouser she was the pain eating cat.


Thursday, 28 March 2024

I hate Pretentious Writers, or those who just cannot write

I hate Pretentious Writers, or those who just cannot write

4 years studying English does NOT make you a writer

I  LISTENED for 20 years, or maybe I'm stupid

36 years qualified, in my mind anyway

add the two together

that's my love of words

I read something about a pub today, in a paper I get 

amongst the many i read daily

from USA to Japan

and UK ones too

I always say

Nobody speaks like that

or its u its backside

or much blunter

so

I've dug up this

and I may write my own piece about pubs

later

Pretentious Poets Strike Again ©

 

By Michael Casey

 

Now how exactly shall we describe Pain, is it just a myth advanced by Pharmacists aided and abetted by slick adverts on tv with wonderful graphics of throbbing this and that. Does it exist at all? Is it just a bad joke on Creation’s part? Shall I compare thee to a Scream on a Winter’s night echoing through The Dark of the Night of he Soul.

 

Now where did we put the Dictionary, next to our copy of the Perfect Word by Lenny Bruce, the well know American dictionary compiler, the coarse, the very coarse version. Or did we leave it next to our cook book, the American guide to Hamburgers a la Macdonalds, the 1999 version. Though who uses dictionaries, they are for the mentally weak, those with no moral fibre, we poets don’t need them, we just make up new words made up of sounds.

 

If it sounds good we use it, not forgetting a dose of alliteration on the side, and if we get the words wrong there is always the doctor or the priest to absolve us from our word choice. Priests are so forgiving of our words, especially Fr. Percy, he used to be a nudist till he saw the light and became a poet and then finally a priest, in the church of the Church of the Totally Gullible the church of Film Stars and Pop Stars.

 

But I digress, which word shall I pick and choose, where is my Muse, it’s hard to keep your muse, it should be chained to your bed, or was that a bad idea I saw on Blacklist, I really must stop watching late night tv, or was it the Brussel sprouts I consumed. We poets don’t eat we consume, and are consumed by ideas and emotions, because we are so sensitive, as we are Artists who teach the whole world what is Nature in the atmosphere and deep deep deep down inside us.  

 

I found the dictionary in the bathroom, its such consuming reading while one is at repose, or just sat on the toilet. Sadly a few pages are missing, I ran out of tissue paper, the letter Z has all but disappeared. But Z is so boring so it shall not be missed by this Poet, nor the world of words, how many zebras have you heard of in contemporary poetry. Not even Leonard Cohen used Z, so it won’t be mourned, he will be mourned, but Z will not.

 

So where were we, yes we were describing Pain, rather like a Rolling Stones concert where there is a 400 years queue for the toilet, now that is pain as one hops from leg to leg crossed leg to crossed leg, like a frog in a kilt, and no I’m not talking about that French Fashion person, whose name evades me right now, though he does make rather good perfume in the torso bottle. I’m almost inspired to write a ditty about queueing to have a sh sh well  you know what I mean, so long as its clean.

  

Now I was going to talk about how clever my choice of words is, but that would be boastful, but I am a pretentious poet, so I DO need to Educate you, there are more letters in the alphabet other than Z after all. In the Fall the leaves fall  and gather on the ground for walkers to walk in and squash and squish, rather like pages stolen from a dictionary never to be used again, its all such desolation, how can poets survive with no cheap alliteration to be found in the leaves, Nature itself thieves them from our life from our very being.

 

So Pretentiousness must end the pain killers have worked and its 5.30am now so I need to go back to bed to finish my repose, this stink of words must have gone up your nose or fallen down and left a mess on your pjs or dressing gown, amongst the tooth paste stains and hot chocolate stains. So goodnight to one and all, as the good Earth spins I have finished blowing my own Trumpet, another night owl is reading my words, its 3am somewhere and I hope he enjoys my prose brought on by lack of repose. And if He wants to give everybody a great Christmas Present, how about lowering the cost of pills, then he would be a saviour for all our ills.



Aran's jumper, he may steal it back later, a very old joke

Portuguese Translations

Humour Writing by the fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham England read in 167 countries so far https://www.amazon.co.uk/Micha...