The sad end of King Richard III

An ignominious end for a King,
more fitting for a fool or court jester.
No devil born deserves that final sting –
to end up being laid to rest in Leicester.

(It has been officially verified that the body found under a Leicester car park is that of Richard III)

The Lismore Tidy Towns Committee

Oh, the river walk by the Owenashad
was a lovely place that one time had
speedwell, toothwort, anemones
and flowers so rare and pretty.
The people came to stroll and dream
beside the gently lapping stream,
till it caught the attention of the Lismore
Tidy Towns Committee.

Now, the LTT is a body that
has improved our urban habitat.
They’ve tackled well the problems
that beset both town and city.
They’ve planted boxes, trees and shrubs,
improved the look of shops and pubs –
oh yes, we’re very grateful to
the Tidy Towns Committee.

But then they decided, off the cuff,
that nature wasn’t tidy enough
and Waterford County Council found
some money in the kitty.
And in the great bulldozers roared
and bushes and wild plants were floored,
courtesy of that well-meaning
Tidy Towns Committee.

Woodrush, garlic, pignut too,
along with the famous Lismore Blue –
all were cleared to make a path
both rubble-strewn and gritty.
Gone are the speedwell, ferns and sedges,
gone the birds that nest in the hedges,
tidied up quite neatly by
the Tidy Towns Committee.

And now I walk in the aftermath,
along this rubbled, soulless path
and passers by inform me that
they feel it’s such a pity
that the lovely walk that we one time had
by the peaceful, lapping Owenashad
has been vandalised completely by
the Tidy Towns Committee.

The real X factor

To those who sweat in pubs and clubs
and grubby half-filled village halls
where recognition never calls,
I clap politely. Stardom snubs
but, in your picking fingers, you
have far more talent than the climbin’
wannabes who dress like Simon
thinks they should. To art be true,
learn well your trade and you will find
a joy that will sustain you till
you die. And you will surely fulfill
the dream that needs no contract signed.
I beg you, don’t throw in the towel –
there’s more to life than Simon Cowell.

Please stop asking me to approve treaties

Please stop asking me to approve treaties –
my head’s in bits and my stomach’s in tatters
and I’ve got a really bad case of the DTs.

Grubby old men, stop offering me sweeties!
I feel like Alice in a room of Mad Hatters
when you keep asking me to approve treaties.

We had a great night over at Cousin Beattie’s
and I really can’t focus on such matters,
suffering badly, as I am, with the DTs.

I need camphor oil and cups of sweet teas,
not all this shyte you’re throwing at us
about whether or not I should approve treaties.

Bleary-eyed, my face resembles E.T.’s
(a comparison, alas, that only flatters
when I’ve a really bad case of the DTs.)

So stop! Heed my earnest entreaties,
all ye Joe Higgins and Alan Shatters.
Please desist asking me to approve treaties
when I’ve a really bad case of the DTs.

Qadhafi

“He’s turned the military on his own,”
says Cameron, sincere and open-handed,
“and thus this madman must be overthrown.”

We will not mention the example shown
in Derry, when the Government demanded
the military turn upon its own.

But rather let the unspun mind now hone
in on the view that Qadhafi should be branded
a madman who must now be overthrown.

When there’s a revolution ‘gainst the throne,
how should this treasonous act be countermanded
if not by turning soldiers on ‘their own?’

Mobilise the dentists? Maybe phone
the carpenters to get the rough wood sanded?
Would this stop ‘madmen’ being overthrown?

From desert scrub and toppled inert stone,
see how the hopes of Libyans expanded
since Qadhafi made the military his own.

But Cameron / Blair says we cannot condone
the use of force Qadhafi has commanded
and thus the madman must be overthrown.

Look how much the fledgling state has grown
since foreign occupation was disbanded,
then tell me the military’s not his own
and why this ‘madman’ should be overthrown.

Bertie and Ash Wednesday

(For me Ash Wednesday always reminds me of Bertie Ahern getting the ash mark at Mass in the morning and it alternately fading and strengthening during the day)

Where did Bertie keep his ashes
to top up his mark of Lent?
Did his aide arrange small stashes
everywhere the fecker went?
Did he stuff them in his pocket
after Mass, when he was leaving?
Did he keep them in a locket
like a widow who is grieving?
Did his secretary buy them
and secrete them in her bag
till he needed to apply them
when his penance seemed to sag?
All the papers would wax lyrical;
some claimed it was black paint!
But perhaps it was a miracle
and he really was a saint?

Song for Brian

(written January 2010)

You were charming and dutiful,
unbearably beautiful,
when you first assumed power from Bertie.
With your Offaly brogue,
you were no Dublin rogue,
though your language at times could be dirty.
But your star took a tumble
and then started to crumble
as the economy started to waver.
At the end of our tether,
we rise up together
and ask you, dear Brian, will you do us a favour?

Oh Brian, would you ever feck off?
I’m afraid that your snout is too long in the trough.
You once were my pin-up
and helped keep my chin up
but now, like the rest, I just scoff.
Oh Brian, would you ever feck off?

To give you your kudos,
you comprehensively screwed us
like no other Taoiseach before you,
while your party’s back benches
and political wenches
line up to declare they adore you.
But now confidence drains
and your lustred star wanes
and you face a show-down with Micéal.
But even if you beat him,
Disarm him, unseat him,
the writing’s in font forty-eight on the wall.

Oh Brian, would you ever get lost?
For years, we poor sods will be counting the cost.
Your retirement pension
doesn’t need an extension
for your nest is already well-mossed.
Oh Brian, would you ever get lost?

It’s not that I am a fan
of Mary Hanafin,
Noel Dempsey makes me break out in spots.
Brian Lenihan blunders,
Batt O’Keeffe thunders,
Mary Coughlan just gives me the hots.
No there’s no-one to touch you
and it’s clear that, as such, you
exult in untouchable splendour
But despite your great beauty
and devotion to duty,
the worrying fact is – we’d rather have Enda.

Oh Brian, would you ever feck off?
A doctor should grab your two balls and cry ‘Cough!”
Mary Harney’s a cutie,
with Pam Anderson beauty,
but sadly you’re no Hasselhof.
Oh Brian, would you ever feck off?