Dear John

Dear John,
It seems our special bond is failin.’
Our relationship, it seems, is all but through.
Find comfort in the arms of Sarah Palin,
She loves you more than I could ever do.

RTE Drivetime competition
Win a trip for two to Orlando
so as we pick ourselves up from the budget floor...we have another wonderful competition for you to enter...
this time the destination is the united states ...a terrific trip for two to orlando...courtesy of touramerica.ie....who will fly you and a friend with aer lingus direct to orlando in florida...you will stay at the luxurious 4 star regal sun resort for one week. you will also have a car fully inclusive of all extras for the duration.
what we want you to do is imagine you are the newly-elected president of the united states.....known in the white house....i kid you not.... as potus...
you are preparing your acceptance speech and you have no more than 40 words to pay tribute to the losing candidate.
you get to choose whether to be barack or john....and after that...let your imagination roll....so long as you don't exceed 40 words.
the closing date is monday november 3rd......and the election itself of course is november 4th.

Hating old people

Oh cleave my poor tongue to the roof of my mouth
And cast me adrift to my fate.
May all of my friends say ‘Farewell’ and head south,
For what I’m about to relate.

The elderly, sadly, are all in a tizzy
Because of the budget’s means testing.
Many are scandalised, many are busy
Writing in to Joe Duffy, protesting.

The subject’s emotive and Lenihan’s lash
Has caused quite an old-age furore.
They’re on the phone saying they won’t have the cash
In Galway and Gort and in Gorey.

“Worked hard all my life. Now I’m left out to rot.”
“They’re robbing old people of savings.”
“Robbing us blind of the little we’ve got.”
On and on go the denture-frothed ravings.

But what is the problem, I ask, pretty please,
To take part in a means-tested audit?
Why should those with millions seek medical fees
When its evident they can afford it?

Hand-outs should go with how little you earn –
Old age should not earn you acquittal.
Let those OAPs who have money to burn
Not sponge off of those who have little.

Of course I agree that the thresh-hold is low,
And that some of those caught are not wealthy,
But the principal stands – you should pay as you go
If your bank book is looking quite healthy.

.

Can't believe I'm siding with FF / PDs on this one but I can't see any earthly reason why medical cards for OAPs should not be means tested. Was it right for former Taoiseach Charlie Haughey to have a medical card? Or George Redmond? The current cut off point is somewhat low and should be raised but the principle is sound.

The banker’s lament

Oh Lord, this is no time to be a banker,
The fifteenth storey ledges are all full of them.
Their plight elicits raging wrath and rancour.
The public says it’s time there was a cull of them.
For years they’ve robbed Joe Public willy-nilly,
Now the Government has threatened to weigh anchor.
The fat cats all appear now rather silly,
Their blank expressions lately even blanker.

Oh Lord, this is no time to be a banker,
‘Tis not the same profession they enlisted in.
Well I recall the times I used to hanker
After that whole world that they existed in.
But now the knives are out in ev’ry city,
In Hong Kong, London, Chile and Sri Lanka.
It’s difficult to shed a tear of pity.
Now is not the time to be a banker.

Traffic jam

This road that we’ve been travelling
Twenty years, has been unravelling
And we’ve made a lot of progress in that time.
Revving engines at full power
At a hundred miles an hour,
The ten lane superhighway was sublime.

But now it seems we’re slowing,
We’re unsure where we are going
And the traffic is all coming to a halt.
Like Bob Marley, we are jamming,
There is feck-ing and there’s damn-ing,
As we look around to find out who’s at fault.

Single file now, we are stalling,
Some are beeping, some are crawling,
The Government insists we stay in line.
We badly need frugality –
If we all accept reality,
Then the future, so they say, will turn out fine.

Though my tongue may wax unholy,
I’m not averse to trav’ling slowly,
If everyone’s subscribing to the creed.
But there’s still some selfish drivers
Who conspire to deprive us
As they whistle down the bus lanes at great speed.

If the Gards were out there stopping
All those swine out bus-lane hopping,
At least there’d be a certain satisfaction.
But in fact I’m really furious
That this trend is seen as spurious
And no-one has the will to take strong action.

If we’re all of one accord,
It must be right across the board,
And not reserved for private cars and truckers.
But if the others zoom on by,
Will I stay in line? Not I –
Why should I sit and fume with all the suckers?

At the Ryanair altar

The Ryanair colours of yellow and denim
Continue to garner much braying.
They’re blasted and damned with the vilest of venom
For the add-ons the folk don’t like paying.

There’s charges for baggage and priority boarding,
A host of interminable extras.
The prices seem low but they aren’t that rewarding,
The outstretched palm’s quite ambidextrous.

They claim the restrictions cause ire and thunder
And many a hot, sweaty hairline,
But why do the moaners and whingers, I wonder,
Continue to fly with the airline?

Casting the first shot putt

In Ireland, its the travelling community,
In Britain its the Muslims and the Blacks.
Discriminated ‘gainst with great impunity,
Legislation papers over cracks.

In every country there is a minority
That isn’t treated quite like all the rest.
Despite flamboyant efforts of authority,
They always seem to end up second best.

Always it’s been thus from the beginning,
Tibetans don’t exist out there alone.
So let all those who are not prone to sinning
Go and cast the first Olympic stone.

Seamus Brennan

I don’t think I’ll break with tradition.
I will not speak ill of the dead.
Poor Seamus was some politician.
And that’s all that needs to be said.

Whatever my personal viewpoint,
(I’m just a mere critical knave)
It isn’t worth making a new point
‘Bout someone so fresh in the grave.

In life, I was always quite critical –
It serves little use to deny it –
But now one should not be political.
‘Tis seemlier now to keep quiet.

Come on in - the recession’s lovely

How’s the recession going, Mrs. O’Connor?
Is it quite as dreadful as you feared?
Is your husband’s job now deemed a goner?
Have mortgage-clearing hopes now disappeared?

This damned recession’s only one week old now
But see! the clouds are gath’ring overhead.
All the companies will start to fold now –
The poor old Celtic Tiger’s truly dead.

How’ve you found it so far, Miss McCarthy?
Are you weathering the great financial storm?
I did enjoy your pre-recession party,
The opposite of ‘dark before the dawn.’

One week in and all is changed completely
The queues are back again for claiming dole.
Neighbours try and sell their homes discreetly
To circumvent this economic hole.

How’re you faring so far, Mister Lucas?
No champagne in which to soak your dentures?
Our EU partners line up to rebuke us
For our gross financial misadventures.

Oh yes, we’re in recession – it’s official.
Happy Ireland now is dead and gone.
Cutbacks are considered beneficial,
But who’re we going to lay the blame upon?

Mandela

Jailed for life in times perverse
For riding a bike with no light.
The judge declared it could’ve been worse
If the offence had taken place at night.

Though since he left that prison gate
Fair play – it seems he has gone straight.

.

Another unsuccessful competition entry to Drivetime to "explain Mandela's legacy in under 50 words" on the occasion of his 50th birthday

Underestimating the people

Oh how I remember those halcyon days
When Nice first came on the agenda
The treaty was going through a difficult phase
And Brian was its staunchest defender.

Like a giant bulldozer,
He tore those to shreds
Who sought to impose a
No vote on our heads…

“Look at us,” he affirmed,
As his colleagues just squirmed,
“We are honest and upright politicians.
Such a noble array
Should immediately allay
Any tiny but nagging suspicions.
Look at those voting no,
What an unholy show!
An alliance of the misfits of society.
Loony lefties, lefty loonies,
Fundamentalists, Moonies,
Lesbians and gays of notoriety.
You know we make more sense
Here on this side of the fence.
We’re hard-working, decent folk and well-respected.”

But for some strange reason, we
Felt obliged to disagree
And thus the first Nice Treaty was rejected.

Fast forward four years to 2008
And Lisbon was being debated
Poor Brian swung into the campaign quite late
You could tell he was somewhat aerated.

It was a no-brainer,
‘Twas not hard to guess!
The vet’ran campaigner
Was urging a Yes…

“Look at us,” he declared
As his colleagues just stared.
“What a highly respected alliance!
Irish hearts, one and all,
Men and women, hear our call
And vote in great numbers for compliance!
But look at those who espouse
Scrubbing our Lisbon vows,
What a rabble of ne’er-do-well traitors!
Raving Marxist flunkies,
Adulterers and junkies,
Socialists and Northern agitators.
There’s the leftist literati,
The political castrati,
Bible-thumpers in bed now with pagans.
There are Muslims and Vegans,
Anarchic Galwegians
And drunks who can’t get into Fagan’s.
You know we make more sense
Here on this side of the fence.
Come out, come out and do what is expected.”

But again it didn’t work
And poor Brian went beserk
Because the Lisbon Treaty was rejected.

There's a dirty storm a-coming

Photo: Keith Shepard
.
There’s a dirty storm a-coming, can’t you see?
There’s a dirty storm a-coming, can’t you see?
There’s a dirty storm a-coming
All the telegraph wires are humming
There’s a dirty storm a-coming, can’t you see?

Oh the pine trees are all swaying, don’t you know?
Oh the pine trees are all swaying, don’t you know?
Oh the pine trees are all swaying,
And the squirrels are a-praying
Oh the pine trees are all swaying, don’t you know?

Oh the clouds are thick like taters in the sky
Oh the clouds are thick like taters in the sky
Oh the clouds are thick like taters
I suspect they might hydrate us
Oh the clouds are thick like taters in the sky

Oh the air is thick with thunder, me oh my.
Oh the air is thick with thunder, me oh my.
Oh the air is thick with thunder
And dear God it is no wonder
Oh the air is thick with thunder, me oh my.

Oh it’s going to be a belter, just you wait.
Oh it’s going to be a belter, just you wait.
Oh it’s going to be a belter,
Leave the fields and seek out shelter
Oh it’s going to be a belter, just you wait.

Oh you should have got Communion, silly girl
Oh you should have got Communion, silly girl
Oh you should have got Communion,
And you’d better join the union
Oh you should have got Communion, silly girl

The Phoenix Park Railway Station

Oh Iarnrod Eireann, ‘tis truly sublime,
This spanking new station so proud and so tall.
Of all of the stations I’ve seen in my time,
‘Tis truly the loveliest I can recall.

‘Twixt dear Castleknock and young Ashtown so fair,
Its welcoming light twinkles bright in the dark.
But why, people ask with a hint of despair,
Did you come up with calling this stop “Phoenix Park?”

The tourists who yearn for the wide open spaces
Alight there expecting an ocean of green.
Imagine the puzzlement etched on their faces,
When a tree or a plant is nowhere to be seen!

Instead there’s a road bearing constant loud traffic,
A footbridge that leads to a housing estate.
The tourist not schooled in this town’s geographic,
Looks this way and that at the new station gate.

Oh Iarnrod Eireann, imagine the fury!
I’m sure that one day someone’s going to explode.
You might as well take them and drop them in Newry,
As leave them head-scratching beside Navan Road.

Global warming? What global warming?

This morning I awoke with grace
Of God, the sun upon my face
And, as the day was heaven-sent,
I lay there in my canvas tent
And marvelled at those bearded loons
Who whistle eco-friendly tunes.
For aeons now they have insisted
Policies are grossly twisted,
Repeating, yea, ad infinitum,
We’ve obligations to rewrite ‘em.
They claim we should protect the masses
From the scourge of greenhouse gases
And “legislation needs reforming”
Due to so-called global warming.

(Greenhouse gases? Pah! My arse!
‘Tis but a science-fiction farce
That Cork and Galway may tomorrah
Fall like Sodom and Gomorrah!
‘Tis clear that both these wondrous places
Sport the very best oases,
And people in glass houses oughta
Smell the roses and the water)

And thus I lay in contemplation
Of the eco-situation,
While outside, my well nourished ass
Grazed lightly in the marram grass.
Why, just last week, as I recall,
I bought a paper at the stall
Of my old friend, Saleem Ka-bar
Down in the Blanchardstown bazaar,
And read how still those heat-deranged
Green activists claim Ireland’s changed!
And though I grant in certain ways
Old Ireland’s vanished in the haze,
I view their words with much regret
That they should come across so wet.

Oh yes ‘tis true, our travelling folk,
Still railing ‘gainst convention’s yoke
By roaming freely ‘cross the land
From Dunes of Mourne to Banna Strand,
No longer go “traditionally,”
(By 4 x 4, or SUV)
But ride along the harsh terrain
By virtue of a camel train.
And yes, ‘tis true that anybody
Now can cross the Shannon wadi
By walking without fear or dread
Across the arid river bed
And stay as dry as Israelites
Escaping to Mount Sinai’s heights.

But sandy fields of Athenry,
Where still the circling buzzards fly,
You’ve only changed by dint of colour
From verdant green to somewhat duller.
The farmers still protest the rates
Of subsidies for figs and dates.
And still I see familiar faces
At the dromedary races
(Where, I grudgingly confirm,
The going is routinely “firm”)
Where two or three may come together,
Still they moan about the weather,
And how this year they’ll go to Spain
To try and get a bit of rain.

Alarmist eco-friendly warrior,
Don’t you think we might be sorrier
If our climate were endowed
With drizzling rain and blackened cloud?
How could we cope with sudden storms
And sun that neither lights nor warms?
How would we know what clothes to wear?
How would the turbaned goat-herd fare
If we were prone to sudden showers,
Summonsed by almighty powers?
Seditious fires should not be fanned
Across our brown and pleasant land.

.

Thrilled to discover that this got 2nd place in the Trim Literary Festival Swift Satire Competition organised by the Boyne Writers Group

The Lisbon Treaty

(i)

.

Most tea-leaves are grown upon bushes,
So the vertically-challenged can reach ‘em.
The foliage grows thick and luscious,
(According to Stephanie Beecham.)

But in Lisbon, they grow a variety
On trees grown in soil that’s peaty.
Oh its quite the new thing in society –
The highly renowned Lisbon tree tea.

.

(ii)

.

There’s brothels, bars
And burnt-out cars
And urban-art graffiti
And ladyboys
From Clonmacnoise
And dialogue that’s meaty.
Alien trips
On saucered ships,
Return to earth for E.T.
Murd’rous monks
Who dress as punks
And moonshine from Tahiti.
.
True or not?
Sure who knows what
Is in the Lisbon Treaty?

.

(iii)

.

It’s a treaty of refinement,
Parliamentary realignment.
It’s intensive, comprehensive,
Both inclusive and extensive,
The definitive convention
Of diplomatic circumvention,
Both inventive and attentive,
With political incentive,
Full of ethical sub-clauses
‘Bout pan-European causes.
It’s productive and instructive,
Multi-laterally constructive,
A quasi-terminal solution
To a federal constitution.

.

Three unsuccessful entries into RTE Drivetime's competition to explain the Lisbon Treaty in 50 words or less

The Poverty Trap

He stares at the paint-peeling walls that surround him,
The settlement deeds that conspire to confound him,
And draws his deep-pocketed anorak ‘round him,
Lamenting his dire situation.

He checks down the back of the threadbare two-seater
To find a stray shilling to put in the meter
So he can hunch over his single bar heater
And try to restore circulation.

Life is cruel, life is crap
When your arse is ensnared in the poverty trap.

His chin is unshaven, his hair is dishevelled,
He wears the appearance of someone bedevilled
By gross accusations mischievously levelled
That basely conspire to haunt him.

He wishes his daughter would learn to write novels
And earn enough cash so he no longer grovels
In Drumcondra squatland in derelict hovels
Whose squalor now rises to taunt him.

Life is cruel, life is tough,
And I think that me belt has been tightened enough

His ribcage is prominent, his stomach is rumbling,
The sprout in the fridge is both shrivelled and humbling.
He dreams of the good times, distractedly mumbling
‘Bout trying to balance the budget.

He yearns for a burger on which he can pig out,
Of suits so much smarter than his current rig out.
If only he’d friends who would give him a dig out!
How could anybody begrudge it?

Life is cruel, and it hurts
When you can’t fly to Paris to pick up your shirts

How he longs for a fireside that crackles and blazes,
A plate of spaghetti with three bologneses,
And a big pint of Bass with a head – ah now, Jaysus! –
To wash down the plate of smoked salmon.

But now, though he plays to a national gallery,
He’s forced to conserve every grimly-won calorie.
Oh its hard to exist on a Minister’s salary –
And they say things were bad in the famine!

Life is cruel, life is gank
When you don’t have a cent to put into the bank

One day, he avows, when he heads up the nation,
He’ll make sure his colleagues don’t suffer starvation,
Constantly worried by gross deprivation
And fretting when poverty hits them.

No farting around in small step-by-step stages,
He’ll hike up their pensions and hoosh up their wages,
No matter how vocally everyone rages,
He’ll give them a wage that befits them.

Life is cruel, I can’t cope,
Doesn’t everyone see that I’m just a Joe Soap?

Life is cruel, life is crap,
When your arse is ensnared in the poverty trap.

.

I feel this one needs a word of explanation. I originally submitted this to the Strokestown Political Satire Competition 2008, without the italicised chorusy bits. To my surprise it was nominated and I realised I would have to recite it. As I have a stammer, I decide instead to sing it but realised it was a bit monotonous, so added the chorus bits.

At the Festival, I duly sang the original submission (as per the rules) and was totally gobsmacked when it won!

The most devious of all

He was always the one who stood out from the crowd,
He was upright and always plain-speaking.
He was not seen as scurrilous, haughty or proud,
And did not seem publicity seeking.
Just an ordin’ry Joe in an old anorak,
Untainted by rumours and poisonous flak,
Yes Bertie stood out from the rest of the pack,
For he seemed the most honest of all.

There were some who used taxpayers’ money to build
A three foot high wall round their dwelling.
There were some who tapped into the property guild
For a piece of the land they were selling.
There were Charvais silk shirts, there were belts to be tightened,
And phones to be tapped and young Gards to be frightened,
There were presidents too to be roughly enlightened,
But Bertie played no part at all.

But now it appears that the halo has slipped,
The questions come thicker and stronger.
In a web of deceit, our great leader has tripped,
But will he be leader much longer?
The financial questions, concisely expressed,
Are constantly fudged when he’s put to the test.
It appears after all he was just like the rest,
And perhaps the most devious of all.

Begrudging Moses

The nation’s got shirty and blamed poor old Bertie
For a moderate “income revision.”
And, though there’s surprise at the size of the rise,
Sure, it wasn’t the Taoiseach’s decision!
The Commission related, independently stated,
That there have to be leaders and flunkies,
And some deserve more fiscal preference, for
If peanuts are paid, you get monkeys.

But some commentators now seek to deflate us,
Insistent on putting the boot in,
By saying it’s a racket that Bertie’s pay packet
Dwarfs that of George Bush, Brown and Putin.
But the size of his income is, frankly, fair dinkum,
For the others are quite lily-livered,
Whilst Bertie has shown us a tigerish bonus,
Got down, done a job and delivered.

Some folk, who are shameless, claim Bertie’s not blameless
For poorly administered sectors.
In our dealings with Health, we have squandered great wealth,
And house prices adversely affect us.
The misery’s complete with each lane, road and street
Now totally gridlocked with traffic.
And Bertie’s the chappie who’s made us unhappy
(They attest, using language quite graphic.)

But it’s just playing dirty to blame poor old Bertie
For the faults of those HSE buggers.
And new roads are delayed, not by him, I’m afraid,
But by snails and swans and tree-huggers.
The cost of construction may cause quite a ruction,
But Bertie can’t halt market forces.
And it’s the EU that likes to have interest hikes
And pillage our natural resources.

In short then, recapping, he deserves much back-slapping,
For improvements he’s made to life’s quality.
And the great feelgood factor around us, in fact-uh,
Should not be dismissed as frivolity.
But where things aren’t working and progress is shirking,
The blame lies in other directions.
If the old Teflon man were to carry the can,
He wouldn’t win all those elections.

So, though we’ve agreed a pay rise for our leader
(And those who share similar yearnings,)
We’re quickly retreating, now plaintively bleating
And seeking to stymie his earnings.
By our coat-tails he’s brought us from storm-ridden waters
To a land of great milk and much honey.
This latter day Moses has show’red us with roses –
And yet we begrudge him his money!

.

Unsuccessful entry for the Strokestown political satire competition

Knockmaroon Hill

Knockmaroon Hill, my sweet Knockmaroon Hill,
How silent you ponder, so calm and so still,
With but the faint sound of a thousand cars idling,
Immune to their drivers now bristling and bridling.
The fumes haze the sun in the January chill
Protecting thy beauty, dear Knockmaroon Hill.

The traffic has plenty of time to admire
The spluttering starling that pants on the briar,
And sometimes you’ll see some small pasty-faced finches
With your progress now measured in hours and inches.
The robin’s great throat-song, so loud and so shrill,
Grows wheezy and hoarse upon Knockmaroon Hill.

From Lucan, Clonsilla and dear Castleknock
Range Nissans and Audis from six of the clock.
Bumper to bumper, they fume in a line,
A testament to infrastructure’s design.
And evenings, they’re lined up the other way till
Black midnight chimes slowly o’er Knockmaroon Hill.

The traffic is blocked e’er the last starlight wanes,
Like cholesterol choked in arterial lanes.
Immobile it sits, without anguish or pity,
Not flowing at speed to the heart of the city.
A tumour of steel that oft threatens to kill
The lifeblood of Dublin on Knockmaroon Hill.

Thy main road snakes downwards in serpentine crawl
And the grey, powdered hawthorn ne’er fails to enthral.
The ramps, oh those ramps, with their resolute power,
To slow any car reaching two miles an hour.
In awe, I applaud what the planners instil
When designing road networks, dear Knockmaroon Hill.

The residents, blocked in their cold, gravelled drives,
Despairingly smile at their dressing-gowned wives,
Who wait in the doorway and pray that he’ll soon
Exchange his Corolla for hot-air balloon.
Some wait for so long they become rather ill
In the hoar-frosted mornings on Knockmaroon Hill.

Oh fey Chapelizod, asleep at thy foot,
Now swathed like a child in a blanket of soot.
How well I remember her acres of tillage,
When she was a rustic and picturesque village,
Where the Liffey once sang at the foot of the mill,
But now sullenly broods beneath Knockmaroon Hill.

From the gates of the park where the deer are confined
To the lights at the bottom so badly designed,
Thy contour has slowed since I first journeyed here,
For once thy descent was a whirlwind of fear.
‘Tis hard to imagine the air-rushing thrill
I got from thy sledge-slope, oh Knockmaroon Hill.

The roadway and pathway, so steep and so narrow,
Were built for the lusty young boy with the barrow.
Freewheeling downhill to the baker’s small shop,
Then panting his slow way back up to the top.
Pausing en route for his asthmatic pill,
How roundly he cursed thee, sweet Knockmaroon Hill.

But now, as I sit here, all things come to mind,
The great nasal forays of the driver behind,
The faulty red light of the Hi-ace in front,
The bumper attesting to some former shunt.
A host of reflections that pleasantly fill
The hours I spend waiting ‘pon Knockmaroon Hill.

.

Unsuccesful entry for Strokestown political satire competition

The Ansbacher list

Whatever became of the Ansbacher list?
Those hundred odd names who avoided their tax?
Did anything happen? Was there something I missed?
Did we ever find out all the pertinent facts?

As we tightened our belts, these one hundred or so,
With a grin on their face salted money away.
And crippled by taxes, our dreams were laid low –
Oh the poor sing laments, while the rich lads all play.

But they told us they’d found them. They told us they’d shame them.
They told us the list would be published quite soon.
The papers were ready to go out and name them,
But again we were left howling loud at the moon.

All of a sudden, it went very quiet.
The subject was dropped and not mentioned again.
Was pressure applied? Oh I’m sure they’d deny it,
While the rest of us sway to the usual refrain.

In fine Ulster tradition

Should the father be absolved for the sins of the son?
Should the leader decide when to go?
Should a Unionist show such outpourings of fun?
Should he maintain support from below?
Should the old man continue for ever and a day?
Should he joke with McGuinness and co?
Should power be administered in a jovial display?
For Ian, sadly, Ulster says no.

The autism unit in old Castleknock

There’s an autism unit in a spanking new block,
They say that it’s state of the art.
It graces the parish of old Castleknock
In a school with a very big heart.
The school has been opened for over a year,
But folk are both angry and shocked,
That, though the new school is a source of great cheer,
The autism unit’s still locked.

Mary Harney is blaming financial constraints
For this shocking, political gaffe.
Mary Hanafin’s shrugged off the flood of complaints,
Saying, “Open the block without staff!”
But to open the unit, replies the school board,
(While the Marys cling tight to their purses)
Is like throwing wide open a hospital ward
Without any doctors or nurses.

At home, a young mum puts her life on the shelf
And stares at the walls of her cage,
Obliged to try teaching her young son herself,
Although he is six years of age.
But she’s no professional, she hasn’t the skills
To teach him to learn and to play,
And while the two Marys hide up in the hills,
The boy’s getting worse by the day.

There’s an autism unit in a spanking new block,
They say that it’s state of the art.
It graces the parish of old Castleknock
In a school with a very big heart.
And the Ministers’s salaries go through the roof,
And deflection’s the name of the game,
And the HSE sits there unmoved and aloof,
To Ireland’s abominable shame.

Every time he testifies

Every time he testifies,
Suspicion haunts those hunted eyes.
“This really is unfair,” he cries
Amongst his more urbane replies.
“This questioning,” he mumbles, “flies
Straight in the face of all that’s wise.
My lawyers, with great tact, advise
You’re propagating my demise.”
Thus, as is his wont, he tries
The trusted Fianna Fail reprise,
Evincing wounded, hurt surprise
That folk suspect he’s telling lies.
But, ‘ere his testimony dries,
New evidence will doubtless rise
That, taken logically, defies
The “truth” he shamelessly supplies.

Song for Europe

The song itself is rhythmical and quirky,
The work of some resourceful balladeer.
Unlike the rest, its upbeat and its perky,
And bound to garner douze points from Izmir.
Some claim that it’s inclusion is quite murky,
“There’s shady business going on,” they sneer.
But I can’t join in lambasting of the turkey –
I thought we picked a turkey every year.

On the resignation of Fidel Castro

Forty years ago, they couldn’t quell him,
The greatest of the Cuban freedom fighters.
The CIA weren’t able to expel him,
Despite the best attempts of their Gauleiters.
Down through the years, nobody dared to tell him
That he had no insurance underwriters,
And now his stomach has conspired to fell him,
A savage case of Castro enteritis.

The 39th Step

(Premier League fans are disgruntled by plans to play the 39th game of their league abroad)
.

And so this kite is gaining height
And gathering momentum
There’s such reward to play abroad
That no-one can prevent ‘em.
The Asian pound is lying ‘round,
Just dyin’ to be collected
And money talks – it yells and squawks -
And can’t be disrespected.

Game thirty nine, the boys opine
Will garner muchos dollars
And they attest ‘twill interest
The Thai and J League scholars.
In Vietnam and Uncle Sam,
The dividends are massive,
And clubs who dare can grab a share
But not by staying passive.

But some don’t like this trans-world hike
And label it dementia.
The fans, they say, on modest pay
Cannot afford this venture.
They call it greed, this craven need
For worldwide domination,
And say this plan is anti-fan,
An insult to the nation.

How can John Doe afford to go
To places like Burundi?
And who can fly off to Dubai
And get back home for Monday?
The loyal fans are also-rans,
The way this scheme is crafted.
They built these teams, but now it seems,
They’ll end up getting shafted.

Oh how my heart doth ache and smart
At all this agitation!
And I must weep myself to sleep
At such great lamentation.
The die-hard fan can’t make Japan
Or Adelaide or Delhi.
The only way he’ll see them play
Is watching on the telly.

But wait a mo! Before I go
And join the revolution,
Deep in my mind, I sense a kind
Of vengeful retribution.
Those fans stayed schtum and acted dumb
When asked for help by others,
When the Premier League with deep intrigue
Cast off its poorer brothers.

What did they care for deep despair
In Mansfield, York and Wycombe?
When Luton Town were going down
They formed a line to kick ‘em.
They gave support to those who thought
That Mammon must be sated,
And thus I cringe to hear them whinge
‘Bout being thus negated.

It must be said, they made their bed
And hopped in with the Devil,
Seduced by greed that fed their need
On playing fields not level.
And now they claim their precious game
Is being destroyed by money!
Up in Carlisle, they wryly smile
But can’t see much that’s funny.

And spare a thought for those in sport
In far, exotic places,
Who’ll gladly queue to pay to view
Our old familiar faces.
For Scudamore knows well the score –
The product’s bound to pull ‘em.
Lord help the souls expecting goals
At Bolton versus Fulham.

As riches gleam, your Premier team
Becomes more fan-resistant.
In iv’ry towers, the football powers
Now spiral ever distant.
So if you’re sweet on the elite
And now feel very local,
Eschew the hype, revert to type
And follow teams more local.

Reclaim the game. Support your local team!

Donie Cassidy, the great prophet

The leader of the Seanad advoctes lowering speed limits for 'foreigners'
.

A great prophet, so they say,
Is not feted in his day,
At least, not in the country of his birth.
He is scorned and much-maligned
By a populace so blind
That they simply don’t appreciate his worth.
So it is with dear old Donie,
At whom people cry “Baloney!”
And treat him with contemptuous derision.
But he battles on undaunted,
Though his tear-brimmed eyes are haunted
By the burden that becomes a man of vision.

He has broached the thorny question,
Introduced the strong suggestion,
That road deaths oft lay at the door of ‘foreigners.’
And that measures must be taken
‘Gainst the Slav and the Jamaican
To try and ease the workload faced by coroners.
The non-Irish must drive slower,
Our speed limits should be lower
For all of those not kissed by Patrick’s lips,
And the Latvians and Czechs,
Driving ‘round in battered wrecks
Should factor in some extra time for trips.

Of course, there’s agitation
‘Gainst speed limit segregation,
For how are traffic cops with guns
Supposed to differentiate
Between a driver from Kuwait
And one of Mother Caitlín’s noble sons?
But the answer is quite simple,
It’s as clear as Donie’s dimple
That twinkles every time the great man smiles –
Take each foreign person’s bonnet,
And in bright white paint upon it,
Daub a giant cross that can be seen for miles.

Then the traffic cops will know
If its Miley from Mayo,
Just pretending that he’s Rubens Barrichello.
If that Yaris has no cross,
Then they need not give a toss,
For the driver is a cautionary fellow.
But if the big white cross gleams bright
Then it’s certainly not right –
Such recklessness must stringently be thwarted.
The Government can’t shirk it –
This is not a Grand Prix circuit,
Speeding Lapps should henceforth be deported.

Just imagine how we’ll fare
When we’re driving down to Clare,
And all the lads are crawling down at thirty.
And we’ll blithely overtake
With ne’er a thought of clutch nor brake,
Ignoring all those looks both dark and dirty.
They will trundle down the trail,
Get overtaken by a snail,
And doubtless Chinese swearwords will abound.
But it must be understood
That it’s done for their own good –
At least they’re going to get there safe and sound.

But in truth, I’m not too shocked
That dear Donie should be mocked
For endeavouring to stamp out traffic shunts.
Though so many people scoff, it
Is quite normal for a prophet
To find such ridicule on many fronts.
But brave Donie is the man
Who has come up with the plan
To liberate the roads from Ferns to Fanad,
And his youthful face belies
The great wisdom in his eyes
That mark him out as leader of the Seanad.

Superior away form

(Minister for Forein Affairs Dermot Ahern enthralls Chadian youngsters, and indeed us, by performing 18 keepie-uppies in an impromptu kickabout shown on you tube)

.

The Minister, watching some football in Chad,
Decided to show off the skills that he had
And clad, not in boots, but in patent hush-puppies,
He managed a worthy eighteen keepie-uppies.
The locals clapped loudly, all doubtless impressed
By this show of great skill eloquently expressed.

Back at home, it was played and we all tipped our cap
To his footballing skills in some place on the map.
In amazement we watched him controlling the ball,
For at home, he had not seemed sure-footed at all.
In fact, far from showing an ounce of control,
Himself and his colleagues have lost sight of goal.