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.