Strauss-Kahn, an Hommage

Strauss-Kahn,
Strauss-Kahn,
What kinda steroids are you on,
Strauss-Kahn?

Strauss-Kahn,
Strauss-Kahn,
What about those of us who are non-
Strauss-Kahns?

Hollande
Had a certain bond
With his favorite blonde,
But he looked aronde—
And the blonde was gone!
She was out on the lawn
Gettin’ it on
With Strauss-Kahn.

Michelle
Was looking swell,
But you can never tell:
The hand on her back
Traced a winding track
Right down to her crack.
She thought it was Barack
And gave him a whack.
The hand was withdrawn
And she gazed upon
Strauss-Khan.
Berlusconi
Had a rigid baloney
For Melania’s yoni.
On some pretext
He sent her a text
And was deeply vexed
By what came next:
She said, You want to hump
Mrs. Trump?
Don’t be a chump.
You're much too plump,
And what are you going to do, stand on a stump?
You need a frump
To jump.
You should point your artillery
At Hillary.
Is Angela Merkel
In your circle?
Princess Anne
Could use a man.
Or hey!
Theresa May!
No, it's sweet that you’re coming on,
I don't mean to yawn,
But you're tryng to let on
That you're a Don Juan.
Come on!
The real paragon
Of sexual brawn—
Is Strauss-Khan!

So Berlusconi
With a limp baloney.
Called up his old crony,
Bill,
And said, I’m over the hill!
Bill said, I’m over Hil.
She's getting too shrill.
Even in dishabille
She’s not much of a thrill.
But there’s lots to do still.
It’s not Capitol Hill
But you can still sink the drill,
If you have but the skill,
And the will.
Take a pill.
Try to chill.
But forget about Hil.
She’s worth several mil
But if looks could kill
She’d be guiltier still.
Not even Strauss-Kahn
Would dare take her on.
You’d better log on
To some new liaison.
Meghan
Is taken.
Why don’t you get cosy
With Madame Sarkosy?
Or break a few eggs
On Brigitte’s legs?
Sophie Trudeau—
But it’s a long way to go.
But don't point your baton
At the West-Wing swan.
Those days are gone.
We're just not Strauss-Kahn.

Strauss-Kahn,
Strauss-Kahn,
What kinda steroids are you on,
Strauss-Kahn?

Strauss-Kahn,
Strauss-Kahn,
What about those of us who are non-
Strauss-Kahns?


Robert MacLean is an independent filmmaker. His The Light Touch is on Amazon Prime, Tubi and Scanbox, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a film reviewer, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, live Greece, Irish citizen. No brains but an intellectual snob.


“I'm afraid of NOTHING except being bored!”―Greta Garbo

The Light Touch on Amazon Prime

The Natural Wish to Be Robert MacLean


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Poems are like farts.

Poems are like farts.
Other people’s stink.  One’s own
Have subtle perfume.

(From Senryu, http://robertmaclean.blogspot.com/2010/11/senryu_6824.html)
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Trying It On: A Toby Moment

“I would give all I possess to get out of myself; but somehow
I find myself so vastly more interesting than
the people I meet.”―Henry James
Marcie looks in the mirror. What does she see? Blonde hair, blue eyes, a face that, even in early middle age, is girlish. Not that these details intrude on her consciousness. There’s only so much room in there.

Let us skim over her happier features to her translucent bare feet, of which she displays the arches as she pirouettes. What she sees is the dress she’s trying on. 

“Tobee! Is this one OK?”

“No,” I say.

She shrugs and goes back into the changing room while the salesgirl gives me a how-long-is-this-going-to-take look. This is the fifteenth dress.

I smile at her. She isn’t bad either. Legs crossed, bare feet pointed at me in a manner that can only be provocative, patient sarcasm in her smirk. I love Italian women. Through the door of her shop, boats bob in the little Portofino harbor.

We do this a lot, Marcie and me. She has an infinite amount of money, and I have an infinite amount of time. So it works! I stretch and yawn.

I mean, how do you spend your day?

The signorina leans forward and dangles her toes at me, disturbing my erectile tissue. How can you prefer her to me, her look says. I will undress for any indecency you care to inflict on me.

I glance around at the store. Do you own this? my look says. How would we live?

Marcie comes out in dress sixteen, reaching back for the zipper such as to show the heartbreakingly tender skin under her arms, and gives me a how’s-this look. 

I touch my fingertips to my thumb and explode them. “Bellissima!” What the hell, we’re in Italy. 

“Yeah?”

“Utter wowness,” I assure her. 

Delighted, she hurries behind the curtain to resume her street clothes, and my gaze falls on the Italian. Her eyes molest me, and I can do nothing but submit. Poor kid. Here I am, right in front of her, and she can’t have me. All she can do is lubricate.

She gets up and rehangs the rejected dresses, presenting me with a nicely developed pair of cheeks. Bean-shaped. Rounded at every possible contour. Concealing between them—well.

She turns, hand on hip, gives me an I-know-what-you’re-thinking look and we lock eyes—just as Marcie emerges—and stops, blinking her sadness that I should so much as acknowledge the existence of this woman, any woman. Marcie’s decency would make another man weep. Of course I am that other man, but let us leave him in the shadows.

“Gee, Toby,” she says, as we walk away along the port, her package slung on my shoulder, “do you like me better than her?”

“Sure,” I say. And when I see that this is not enough, “There is no comparison. You are the ultimate. Beside you she is negligible. The poor girl sees that.”

This earns me a hug, a rush of dopamine and a luxurious lunch.

I mean, how do you spend your day?

Robert MacLean is a bad poet and an independent filmmaker. His The Light Touch is on Amazon Prime, Tubi and Scanbox, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a screamingly funny novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a reviewer of films, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, live Greece, Irish citizen. Committed to making movies that don't matter. No brains, but an intellectual snob.


Frankly, I forgive myself.

In Bed with the Girls

The Light Touch on Amazon Prime

Film reviews: Hillbilly Elegy

The Natural Wish to Be Robert MacLean

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