The shitehawk

The shitehawk, Ireland’s bird of prey,
Is common in our skies today,
Hov’ring over town and road
To disposition its great load
On people who are unaware
It’s up above them in the air.

It comes in many shapes and sizes
Handing out its brown surprises.
Famous ornithologists
Spend many years compiling lists
Of all the many hybrid species
Currently dispensing faeces.

There’s overchargers, red-light jumpers,
Bank head-shakers and gazumpers,
Petty thieves and hooded bowsies,
Scumbags who break into houses,
Men who can’t see what the fuss is
Sitting put on crowded buses.

Authority that’s mean and petty,
Uncle George and Great Aunt Betty,
Journalists who ruin lives,
Cheating husbands, lazy wives,
Men who’ll sack you with a laugh
To take on cheaper, foreign staff.

Folk who fling black sacks in ditches,
Curtain twitchers, nosey bitches,
Parkers in disabled spaces,
Intolerants of other races,
Girls that snipe and boys who bully,
Spin-doctors who make wrong acts woolly.

The common wisdom is that this
Great bird that spreads its shite and piss
O’er everybody, old and young
(Indiscriminately flung)
Is much more common in the sky
Than ever was in years gone by.

That isn’t quite the case however.
This great bird of prey has ever
Fouled our country top to toe,
Browning those green fields below.
It’s just, before, it seemed that we
Were crapped upon less openly.

British soil

First they let in British sports at Croker,
Which made the blood of many people boil.
But this new revelation is a choker –
Our hallowed turf’s usurped by British soil!

Is that what all the sons of Roisín died for?
Is this the product of our fathers’ toil?
Our players cannot take it in their stride, for
We’re unsure of our ground on British soil.

Our fathers fought against the yoke of slavery,
To free ourselves from all things blue and royal.
And what’s the nett result of all that bravery?
To play the Sam Maguire on British soil?

Surely there’s some earth upon this island,
Somewhere ‘twixt the Barrow and the Foyle,
Somewhere in the valleys or on high land
That could be used instead of British soil?

So let us turf out those who would betray us!
All Irishmen must certainly recoil
At this great insult to our finest players,
And sod all those who favour British soil!

Son of Lisbon Treaty

Oh great! We have a chance to show repentance.
Thank God we now can put the matter right.
We really didn’t understand the sentence –
But this time we are suitably contrite.

The first time, we were really only joking,
We didn’t think you’d take us at our word.
We never knew what fires we were stoking.
To think we meant it plainly is absurd.

So this time, let us not resort to messing,
Let all the jokes and giddiness now cease.
Let us concentrate now in expressing
Consent, just as we did, at last, with Nice.

So let us all approach this referendum
Suitable chastised from head to toe.
And, let us all write down, as an addendum
We’re very sorry that we voted no.