Tuesday, March 22, 2011


“He’s turned the military on his own,”
says Cameron, sincere and open-handed,
“and thus this madman must be overthrown.”

We will not mention the example shown
in Derry, when the Government demanded
the military turn upon its own.

But rather let the unspun mind now hone
in on the view that Qadhafi should be branded
a madman who must now be overthrown.

When there’s a revolution ‘gainst the throne,
how should this treasonous act be countermanded
if not by turning soldiers on ‘their own?’

Mobilise the dentists? Maybe phone
the carpenters to get the rough wood sanded?
Would this stop ‘madmen’ being overthrown?

From desert scrub and toppled inert stone,
see how the hopes of Libyans expanded
since Qadhafi made the military his own.

But Cameron / Blair says we cannot condone
the use of force Qadhafi has commanded
and thus the madman must be overthrown.

Look how much the fledgling state has grown
since foreign occupation was disbanded,
then tell me the military’s not his own
and why this ‘madman’ should be overthrown.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Bertie and Ash Wednesday

(For me Ash Wednesday always reminds me of Bertie Ahern getting the ash mark at Mass in the morning and it alternately fading and strengthening during the day)

Where did Bertie keep his ashes
to top up his mark of Lent?
Did his aide arrange small stashes
everywhere the fecker went?
Did he stuff them in his pocket
after Mass, when he was leaving?
Did he keep them in a locket
like a widow who is grieving?
Did his secretary buy them
and secrete them in her bag
till he needed to apply them
when his penance seemed to sag?
All the papers would wax lyrical;
some claimed it was black paint!
But perhaps it was a miracle
and he really was a saint?

Song for Brian

(written January 2010)

You were charming and dutiful,
unbearably beautiful,
when you first assumed power from Bertie.
With your Offaly brogue,
you were no Dublin rogue,
though your language at times could be dirty.
But your star took a tumble
and then started to crumble
as the economy started to waver.
At the end of our tether,
we rise up together
and ask you, dear Brian, will you do us a favour?

Oh Brian, would you ever feck off?
I’m afraid that your snout is too long in the trough.
You once were my pin-up
and helped keep my chin up
but now, like the rest, I just scoff.
Oh Brian, would you ever feck off?

To give you your kudos,
you comprehensively screwed us
like no other Taoiseach before you,
while your party’s back benches
and political wenches
line up to declare they adore you.
But now confidence drains
and your lustred star wanes
and you face a show-down with Micéal.
But even if you beat him,
Disarm him, unseat him,
the writing’s in font forty-eight on the wall.

Oh Brian, would you ever get lost?
For years, we poor sods will be counting the cost.
Your retirement pension
doesn’t need an extension
for your nest is already well-mossed.
Oh Brian, would you ever get lost?

It’s not that I am a fan
of Mary Hanafin,
Noel Dempsey makes me break out in spots.
Brian Lenihan blunders,
Batt O’Keeffe thunders,
Mary Coughlan just gives me the hots.
No there’s no-one to touch you
and it’s clear that, as such, you
exult in untouchable splendour
But despite your great beauty
and devotion to duty,
the worrying fact is – we’d rather have Enda.

Oh Brian, would you ever feck off?
A doctor should grab your two balls and cry ‘Cough!”
Mary Harney’s a cutie,
with Pam Anderson beauty,
but sadly you’re no Hasselhof.
Oh Brian, would you ever feck off?

November 2010

Though we maintained (with fingers crossed)
and voices pitched in treble clef,
that fiscal control was not lost,
still came the men from IMF.
For us, no more beef bourguignon
and no more merlot that we crave,
for sovereign Ireland’s dead and gone –
it’s with the tiger in the grave.

Remember how the tiger growled
and houses sprang up cross the land;
and unions were disembowelled
and talk of spending cuts was banned;
and how the banks lent money on
a nod, a handshake, wink and wave?
Sovereign Ireland’s dead and gone –
it’s with the tiger in the grave.

Was it for this the King of Celts
flew to Paris to purchase shirts;
and counselled, apropos our belts,
to tighten them until it hurts;
for this that Bertie smiled upon
the builders and the cash they gave?
Sovereign Ireland’s dead and gone –
it’s with the tiger in the grave.

Could we but call on every man
that brought the good times to this state,
Burke, P.Flynn and Lenihan,
for sure we’d face a finer fate.
But Ireland is a dying swan,
no longer peopled by the brave.
and sovereign Ireland’s dead and gone –
it’s with the tiger in the grave.

Rabbits and juggernauts

(written November 2011)

It is a dark, moonless road,
chill after the incessant downpour
and we are paralysed with fear
in the headlights of world attention
as the juggernaut of financial meltdown
accelerates towards us.

The days of gaily tumbling
down grass-lush hills
have slipped into a kind of folk legend.
Oh why did we ever think
that there was more to life
than fighting and copulation?

To the left or the right?
Even if we knew which dank ditch
offered the greater chance of escape,
we would still remain frozen
to the thick white line
of party political gamesmanship.

Something rotten down at Laura Ashley

(written November 2011 - Laura Ashley sells out to Disney on Grafton Street and screws workers on redundancy)

There’s something rotten down at Laura Ashley,
once world-renowned for elegance and style.
They’ve treated loyal workers very rashly.

Perhaps they thought their staff would be docile
and accept the measly terms of their employers
(once world-renowned for elegance and style?)

The company has now instructed lawyers
to try and muzzle all protesting workers
not happy with the terms of their employers!

High Street fashion has become a circus
when profitable outlets grasp the money
and try and muzzle all protesting workers.

Like circuses worldwide, though, it’s not funny.
Fair play and basic rights are shown the door
when profitable outlets grasp the money.

Shakespeare nearly said it in days of yore –
there’s something rotten down at Laura Ashley.
Fair play and basic rights are shown the door
with loyal workers treated very rashly.

Every Day

(Every day it seems, the figure for our overall debt keeps rising )

Every day

Every day, the number’s getting bigger,
Will we ever learn the final figure?
Debt like ours will never go away (a-hey, ahey-heyyy)

Every day adds another billion
Thousands owed by e-ve-ry civilian,
Debt like ours will never go away.

Every day, the billions keep on mounting,
People pray for accurate accounting,
Come what may, there’ll be no surmounting
How much we owe.

Every day, things are getting worser,
The Swannee’s right up us and vice-versa,
Debt like ours will never go away (a-hey, ahey-heyyy)

Every day, spreads this evil canker,
Every way, there’s a lot more rancour,
People say, let’s go find a banker
And string him up.

Every day, things grow more uncertain,
Radio dominated by Joan Burton,
Debt like ours will never go away.

Every day, we’re further in the doo-doo,
Maybe we should try a little voodoo
Debt like ours will never go away (a-hey, ahey-heyyy)

Debt like ours will never go away.

Debt like ours will never go away.

The derailment of the Ireland Express

(written October 2010 for the Baffle Festival, Loughrea)

Gloom is prevailing,
Everybody’s wailing,
The Steam Train Ireland has suffered a de-railing.
The windows are broken,
The masses are outspoken,
Back in the Aras, the President’s woken.
The Ireland Express is one sorry mess.
The train’s on its side now,
We’re all groggy-eyed now,
Firemen are looking for people inside now.
The carriages are wrecked, the injin’s fecked,
Seems like we’ve all been taken for a ride now.

Brian is the driver,
He’s a born survivor,
But now he’s as naked as Lady Godiva.
Lenihan, the stoker,
Is no good at poker.
Together the two just manage mediocre.
The Ireland Express is now in distress.
Look for solutions,
More contributions,
Lenihan tries the financial institutions.
This way, that-a-way,
Lenny puts the hat away.
Brian’s in the jacks, performing his ablutions.

Enda’s muck-raking,
Starts bellyaching,
Claims that Brian was too slow in braking.
Brian is a-quaking,
Shiv’ring and a –shaking,
Stammers that the accident was not of his making.
The Ireland Express was once a success.
Finnegan, the banker,
Is riddled with rancour,
Says that Brian should’ve thrown out the anchor.
Brian refutes this, angrily disputes this,
Repeats it’s a steam train, not an oil tanker.

Sanity is wobblin’,
Squawkin’ and a-squabblin’,
The pixie blames the elf and the elf blames the goblin.
Up pipes Enda,
With vitriolic splendour
“If you don’t want the train, then put it out for tender.’

The Ireland Express starts to phosphoresce.
Armageddon’s coming,
The weak are succumbing,
Some find the road and have started thumbing.
Those that are left are feeling quite bereft,
The lords aren’t leaping but the drummers are drumming.

They’ve called for a crane now
To lift up the train now.
Some say they’re too old to start up again now.
Morale is crumbling,
Lenny keeps mumbling,
Stocks in the railroad unstoppably tumbling.
The Ireland Express lacks all finesse.
Now it starts raining,
Everyone’s complaining,
Shoulders to the carriage and everyone’s straining.
Far too heavy! Let’s go for a bevy!
Large show of hands with very few abstaining.

Joan’s chastising,
People block their ears as her voice keeps rising.
Money condenses,
Melt-down commences,
Ivor’s on the track compiling his expenses.
The Ireland Express needs to convalesce.
Amid all the clamour,
Lenny builds a NAMA,
Mary Harney’s off to join Bananarama.
The tiger’s been neutered
Brian’s still fluthered,
One steam train going under the hammer.

We’re all faced with less now,
We’re under duress now,
They found the former driver in the kitchen press now,
Anglo’s claimants
Renege on repayments
Then make calls to their banks in the Caymans.
The Ireland Express was driven to excess!
Strong words are bandied,
The chickens have landed,
Accusations are fierce and appreciably candid.
Rewind the clock! We’re all in hock!
The company’s disbanded -
Was it underhanded?
The train’s off the rails and the passengers are stranded.