Beside the coach, the TDs all assembled,
All sniggering at Minister McDowell.
With holdalls clasped in hands, they quite resembled
Some third years on a day trip out of school.
They had their cheeks all squeezed by Mary Harney,
Who straightened up their ties till they looked neat.
Mary O’Rourke could not go to Killarney,
Because, she said, she hadn’t got a seat.
The Minister for Pre-School Education
Admitted that he hadn’t found a crèche,
So his daughter, who was three,
Sat forlornly on his knee
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.
The traffic on the quays was quite atrocious,
The coach was overtaken by a snail.
And Micheal Martin’s slagging was ferocious,
Although he blamed it all on Fine Gael.
Poor old Seamus Brennan got his hair wet
When someone sprayed him with a can of ale.
He kept on asking Bertie, “Are we there yet?”
Although the coach had not yet left the Pale.
Mary Coughlan sang a mournful ballad,
About a heart that beauty might enmesh,
While the messers down the back
Feigned a vomiting attack
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.
Brian Cowan went around collecting money
Which, people said, was one of his great talents.
Though everyone declared it was quite funny
That he couldn’t get the final sums to balance.
Then with the bus approaching Monasterevin
They stopped to take an urgent toilet-break.
The hedgerow there that bordered the N7
Soon found that it was standing in a lake.
And when the haze of steam had dissipated,
And everyone had put away the flesh,
Bould Síle turned to Mary
And said,”Blimey, that was hairy!”
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.
Down the back, there was a brief kerfuffle,
As several people sneaked up on Dick Roche,
And after quite a brief, one-sided scuffle,
A pair of trousers flew out of the coach.
Then through the loud guffaws and hearty joking,
The pungent whiff of stale tobacco blew.
Someone naughty on the coach was smoking,
And Micheal Martin went to find out who.
But the messers down the back were most indignant,
Proclaiming that the air was sweet and fresh.
But when Micheal had gone away,
They all lit up a Craven A,
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.
A squad car flagged them down on leaving Nenagh,
The constable kicked up a mighty fuss.
He swore that in his headlights he had seen a
Crowd of people mooning out the bus.
And as the crossed the Limerick / Kerry border,
Bertie rose, with can of Bass aloft.
The Chief Whip very loudly called for order
(“Make mine a Gin and Tonic!” someone scoffed.)
“Dermot’s getting visas,” stated Bertie,
“And next year’s bash will be in Marrakech.
So, if you all still follow me,
You will get your duty free
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.”
All sniggering at Minister McDowell.
With holdalls clasped in hands, they quite resembled
Some third years on a day trip out of school.
They had their cheeks all squeezed by Mary Harney,
Who straightened up their ties till they looked neat.
Mary O’Rourke could not go to Killarney,
Because, she said, she hadn’t got a seat.
The Minister for Pre-School Education
Admitted that he hadn’t found a crèche,
So his daughter, who was three,
Sat forlornly on his knee
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.
The traffic on the quays was quite atrocious,
The coach was overtaken by a snail.
And Micheal Martin’s slagging was ferocious,
Although he blamed it all on Fine Gael.
Poor old Seamus Brennan got his hair wet
When someone sprayed him with a can of ale.
He kept on asking Bertie, “Are we there yet?”
Although the coach had not yet left the Pale.
Mary Coughlan sang a mournful ballad,
About a heart that beauty might enmesh,
While the messers down the back
Feigned a vomiting attack
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.
Brian Cowan went around collecting money
Which, people said, was one of his great talents.
Though everyone declared it was quite funny
That he couldn’t get the final sums to balance.
Then with the bus approaching Monasterevin
They stopped to take an urgent toilet-break.
The hedgerow there that bordered the N7
Soon found that it was standing in a lake.
And when the haze of steam had dissipated,
And everyone had put away the flesh,
Bould Síle turned to Mary
And said,”Blimey, that was hairy!”
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.
Down the back, there was a brief kerfuffle,
As several people sneaked up on Dick Roche,
And after quite a brief, one-sided scuffle,
A pair of trousers flew out of the coach.
Then through the loud guffaws and hearty joking,
The pungent whiff of stale tobacco blew.
Someone naughty on the coach was smoking,
And Micheal Martin went to find out who.
But the messers down the back were most indignant,
Proclaiming that the air was sweet and fresh.
But when Micheal had gone away,
They all lit up a Craven A,
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.
A squad car flagged them down on leaving Nenagh,
The constable kicked up a mighty fuss.
He swore that in his headlights he had seen a
Crowd of people mooning out the bus.
And as the crossed the Limerick / Kerry border,
Bertie rose, with can of Bass aloft.
The Chief Whip very loudly called for order
(“Make mine a Gin and Tonic!” someone scoffed.)
“Dermot’s getting visas,” stated Bertie,
“And next year’s bash will be in Marrakech.
So, if you all still follow me,
You will get your duty free
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.”
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