Tuesday, February 26, 2008

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.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

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.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

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!

Sunday, February 10, 2008

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 CaitlĂ­n’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.