Big Chief Sitting Bull

Bertie's mascara bill shocks the nation

They say that the total’s ridiculous,
And comes pretty close to insanity,
His make-up expense
Doesn’t make any sense,
And why, in the name of humanity,
Should we pay for our leader’s great vanity?

But Bertie defends the extravagance,
With arms waving round like a thresher.
Despite the great mirth, it
Is clear that he’s worth it,
And under political pressure
To make his appearance look fresher.

It’s ever been thus, he says blithely,
Way back to the High Kings of Tara.
A man needs his blusher
When visiting Russia,
And, when in the burning Sahara,
A leader must carry mascara.

Eye-liner is part of the armoury,
A decided political plus.
DeValera wore rouge
On State Visits to Bruges,
Without such inordinate fuss,
And nobody called him a wuss.

The televised Daìl shows no mercy,
The cameras zoom in without pity,
And only a dipstick
Would not apply lipstick,
For though the discussions are gritty,
It’s vital the speakers look pretty.

George Bush comes across quite assertive,
When speaking in south Mississippi.
With face caked in powder,
His voice becomes louder,
And, if he’s used plenty of lippy,
He won’t come across wet and drippy.

No five o’clock shadow for Bertie,
The toner goes on pretty straight.
Like Mohican or Sioux,
With his face in full view,
There’s one thing he needs to look great –
The foundation (he says) of the state.

So lay off attacks on our Taoiseach,
His motives are pure and untainted.
For Chirac and Blair
Both aspire to look fair
And people with whom they’re acquainted
Say they’re not as bad as they’re painted.