Pete's political verse

Qadhafi

2011-03-22T09:04:00.000-07:00

“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.

Bertie and Ash Wednesday

2011-03-08T14:28:00.001-08:00

(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

2011-03-08T14:25:00.000-08:00

(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

2011-03-08T14:23:00.000-08:00

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

2011-03-08T14:22:00.001-08:00

(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

2011-03-08T14:17:00.000-08:00

(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

2011-03-08T14:15:00.000-08:00

(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

2011-03-08T14:12:00.000-08:00

(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,
Psycho-analysing,
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.

Ex-Anglo chief bids to be made bankrupt in the US

2010-10-15T05:58:00.001-07:00

A country to be proud of

He’s been living in Cape Cod,
doubtless made his peace with God,
after driving Ireland to the brink of ruin.
With his anti-Midas touch,
his banking record’s such,
that we can’t fathom all the debt accruin.’

Now a court in Massachusetts,
where a judge of Yankee hue sits,
will hear this banker’s bankruptcy petition.
And sadly, it’s no joke
that this still-quite-wealthy bloke
has made a hefty counter-claim submission.

He says the bank’s an onus
to fork out his pension bonus,
and damages accrued from loss of salary.
How very wise, one might declare,
that he is suing over there,
and not doing it before an Irish gallery.

Furthermore, if he’s successful,
in this case both hard and stressful,
he’ll hang on to his multi-million pension
and his house in Malahide,
and the house he has States-side,
and any others that you care to mention.

Meanwhile, a man whose kid
left a cardboard box and lid
beside the bottle bank in Superquinn,
was sentenced to do time
for this arbitrary crime.
What a marvellous country we are living in!

Cementgate

2010-09-29T11:03:00.001-07:00

From RTE -
Truck protest
A 41-year-old man was arrested this morning after a concrete mixer truck was driven up to the gates of Leinster House.
The words 'Anglo Toxic Bank' were displayed on the drum of the truck and a billboard on the back of the truck said 'all politicians should be sacked'.
The truck has since been removed and Kildare Street has fully reopened to traffic.
The operation to clear the entrance was made more difficult because the vehicle's brake lines had been cut, immobilising it.
The man is being questioned at Pearse Street Garda Station on suspicion of causing criminal damage.

Enemy of the state

With concrete truck he blocked the Daíl gate,
a heinous, revolutionary crime
that stopped the lawful business of the state.

Lock him up and leave him to his fate.
The judges should ensure he does hard time –
with concrete truck he blocked the Daíl gate!

Ignore the rapists they’ve let out of late –
it takes a rather special sort of slime
to stop the lawful business of the state.

And never mind the bankers that negate
this country’s hopes and won’t pay back a dime.
With concrete truck he blocked the Daíl gate!

Make a harsh example, less this trait
of viewing Government as pantomime
should stop the lawful business of the state.

You can’t expect our leaders to debate
barricaded in by sand, cement and lime!
With concrete truck he blocked the Daíl gate,
and stopped the lawful business of the state.

The office of the Taoiseach

2010-09-20T22:25:00.000-07:00

The office of the Taoiseach

It is really mystifyin’
That the populace all think
That our charismatic Brian
Was the worse the wear for drink.
The interview on radio that caused this pint-sized stir
Was given in his traditional, laconic culchie burr.
To say he ran his words together – that is just a slur,
A slander on the office of the Taoiseach.

An eight hour drinking session
Wouldn’t leave him worse for wear.
What gives you that impression?
It’s really so unfair!
It’s a new low for the state, he says, confronted on all flanks
And on mature reflection, yes, we all agree it ranks
Much lower than child sex scandals and the business with the banks,
This attack upon the office of the Taoiseach.

The Taoiseach’s hale and hearty,
He doesn’t mind a sup,
(Say supporters of the party
As they try to keep him up)
No fear of any Garda who might ask him to exhale.
Of course he’s stone cold sober after all those pints of ale,
It’s all a fiendish plot that has been hatched by Fine Gael,
A scourge upon the office of the Taoiseach.

He is cultured and well-tutored
And his diction is controlled.
Sure, of course he wasn’t fluthered,
It was only a bad cold.
The aspirins he guzzled down were merely antidotal,
Rumours of binge-drinking, I am told, are anecdotal,
In fact, if truth be told, the man is practically tee-total,
Befitting the grand office of the Taoiseach.

And if he lets his hair down
And starts lurrying the gargle,
Should moral pressure bear down?
To deny him Waxie’s Dargle?
Why should his drink consumption matter to the queuing classes?
Carlsberg is the drink to lead the country out of chassis,
Didn’t Churchill see the war out through a pair of brandy glasses?
Raise your pints now to the office of the Taoiseach.

Willie O’Dea triolet

2010-02-21T09:29:00.000-08:00

The spade sliced through the fertile earth too easily.
Too late, he saw he’d dug himself a tomb.
“Check the brothel out!” he’d swaggered breezily.
The spade sliced through the fertile earth too easily.
“But I’m a victim too!” he trembled queasily,
Forgetting people mock the man for whom
The spade has sliced through fertile earth too easily.
Too late! He saw he’d dug himself a tomb.

Many thanks to Kat Mortensen for introducing me to the triolet, which I'd never heard of!

The Lament of George Lee

2010-02-10T20:14:00.001-08:00

I was the Truth, I was the Light,
I was the man who’d make things right,
My election was a natural progression.
I was the One, I was the Prophet,
Those who wore a cap would doff it,
I was the man to lead the country from recession.

I was wise, I was respected,
As I passed, crowds genuflected,
I was Moses come to set his children free.
I was worshipped by the peasants
For my knowledge and my presence –
With hope, the country turned its eyes to me.

But in the corridors of power,
My great vision soon turned sour,
My aspirations spiralled down in flames.
As the new boy in the school,
They would take me for a fool
And never let me join in playground games.

I was the boy left by the wall
Always waiting for the call
Whenever they selected football teams.
In the back row of the class
I’d sit glumly on my ass,
The golden boys eclipsing all my dreams.

All I wanted was a mate
To reassure me I was great,
A friend who’d recognise my true ability.
But Enda and wee Dickie
Seemed to think I was a thickie
And wouldn’t let me near responsibility.

So I’m taking back my ball
And you can shag them, one and all,
No more you’ll see me on the campaign trail.
Under-utilised, my talents
In the field of budget balance
Will not be offered out to Fine Gael.

Sympathy for the Devil

2009-12-28T21:16:00.000-08:00

Our Taoiseach, it seems, is lamenting,
The “most difficult year” of his life.
Condemnation has been unrelenting
And talk of elections is rife.

He’s been under attack from the pensioners,
Public servants have yelled in his face,
And the tax-paying workers? Don’t mention us!
We’ve spent the whole year on his case!

The back benchers don’t welcome the budget,
It’ll lose them more votes than they’ll win.
But the Taoiseach knows well he can’t fudge it,
Or the IMF hawks will wade in.

He’s hitched his old wagon to NAMA,
Though they claim he’s just bailing out banks,
Yet this long-running, slow-moving drama
Hasn’t managed to earn him much thanks.

He’s assailed on all sides by opponents
Who delight in the invective hurled
And claim we possess the components
Required to join the Third World.

But still, you can’t be sympathetic
When your mortgage is short a few bob.
To his plight, we remain apathetic,
At least he has still got a job.

And if he loses his lofty position,
Will he survive on jobseekers’ allowance?
No. His pension will ward off attrition
And keep things au fait for the Cowens.

Yet another Council meeting

2009-12-05T13:47:00.000-08:00

I’m here at yet another Council meeting
To listen to the wailing and self-pity,
To hear the lonely councillors all bleating
About the lack of money in the kitty.
Each week, they pray that some new Walter Mitty
Will rise and offer all a fulsome greeting.
For now though, life is practical and gritty
Down here at yet another Council meeting.

Oh still, my heart, from wild and joyful beating,
When viewing these fine shapers of the city.
The arguments, so often self-defeating,
Hold sentiments that are not very pretty.
Meanwhile I’m trying hard to write a ditty
But humour in this chamber is too fleeting.
Sadly I don’t feel the slightest witty,
Attending yet another Council meeting.

According to the maintenance committee,
Two per cent of homes lack central heating.
They state, descending to the nitty-gritty,
They’re worried ‘bout the septic tanks they’re treating.
Is any place in Christendom more shitty,
Considering the crap that they’re excreting?
I’d rather go and fondle Conway Twitty
Than sit through yet another Council meeting.

The resignation of John O’Donoghue

2009-10-26T16:35:00.000-07:00

The bullfrog joked and smoked
And croaked his deep felt apologies
For whatever hurt he may have caused
To The Office,
Though it was obvious from his rubbery skin
And in his big lugubrious eyes
That he felt that, actually,
He had nothing to apologise for.
From the banks, the children laughed
And poked him with long sticks,
Cut from Autumn-bared boughs,
Trying to dislodge him from the flat rock
In the middle of the fast-flowing current.
But he remained unmoved,
The merest hint of a tremor
Wobbling his giant double chin.
Bloated, he could not turn
When they assailed him from behind
With luscious blackberries
That recently hung ripe from the bramble.
He blinked imperiously,
Squatting immobile on his slate throne
Until the water rose too high
And he was obliged to leap from sight
With a deft splash,
Leaving ne’er a ripple on the smooth surface.

Pro Europe Anti Treaty

2009-09-13T08:15:00.001-07:00

Opposition to the treaty has been waning,
The Yes vote slowly coming to the fore,
Doubtless they will spend the time remaining
Muddying the waters even more.
I for one don’t contemplate secession,
I don’t believe we ought to be abstaining.
The treaty will not save us from recession
But EU membership is worth retaining.

The strategy is clear in their campaigning
To get the Lisbon treaty voted in.
“Yes to Europe!” they cry out, maintaining
That this is why pro-treatyists should win.
But those of us inclined to answer nay,
Feel this is not a slogan worth sustaining.
We’re not against the Union per se
It’s simply ‘gainst the Treaty that we’re straining.

Where is the man?

2009-09-13T08:07:00.000-07:00

Where is the man we can rally behind,
The man who has courage to say the wrong thing
And guides us whatever the Furies may bring?

Who is the man who will rise to be King
And show the true path to the poor and the blind,
No matter how rocky or badly-defined?

What is a man who will speak his own mind
And cares not what stones his detractors may fling,
Maintaining a bird never flew on one wing?

Why must a man be afraid of the sting
That shoots when the planets are wrongly aligned,
When truth, like a length od string, starts to unwind?

The shitehawk

2009-07-30T08:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-14T19:10:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-10T06:46:00.001-07:00

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.

Mexican Swine Flu

2009-05-05T06:45:00.001-07:00

Those Mexican pigs have been sneezing
And causing some far-reaching issues.
Their manners are somewhat displeasing –
You’d think that they’d learn to use tissues.

Their germs have been caught on the breezes
That waft from the Mexican shore,
So the germs thus contained in their sneezes
Will spread round the world evermore.

On booking a flight to Oslo with Ryanair

2009-05-05T02:26:00.001-07:00

Today, with rare and dext’rous flair,
I booked a flight with Ryanair,
The airline that the lower classes
Seem to flock to in their masses,
Forgoing comfort, passenger care
And dinner, for a bargain fare.
This airline has for destinations
Towns in European nations
That the other airlines do
Not feel it worthwhile flying to.
And thus, as I had to attend
A conf’rence on this IPod trend
Now sweeping Europe like the plague
(Its origins unclear and vague,)
I needed to access, of course,
The major destination Norse.
Oslo, quoth the airline page,
Is red’lent of the Viking age
With mountains large and fjords blue
And just five euro to fly to.

Five euro? Why, here in the Pale,
You’d pay that for a pint of ale,
Or for a BLT on brown
In any sandwich bar in town!
And so my fitful heart fair leapt
And fingers ‘cross the keyboard swept.
And lo! Five euro was the fare
To get my portly self out there,
But with the handling charges, it
Exceeded that amount a bit,
To fifty euro ninety cent,
Which made me feel quite malcontent.
So then I turned my hand to comb
The net for flights to take me home,
But though I clicked “Next Day,” “Next Day,”
No cheap fares could be had till May.
Fifty, seventy, ninety, more –
I clicked until my head was sore,
But as I opened every page,
As far as this old fool could gauge,
The only way I could avail
Of Ryanair’s Fantastic Sale,
Was if I spent nine months or ten
With very Nordic gentlemen,
A prospect that I viewed quite dimly.
Thus I bit the bullet grimly,
Opting for a medium fare
That would fly me out of there –
Twenty nine and ninety nine?
Yes, I s’pose ‘twould do me fine,
But oh those charges and those taxes
Sent me spinning on my axis.
Naïvely, ‘twas for me surprising
How the total kept on rising.
Checking in my sole valise
Then sent me crashing to my knees,
While paying on my credit card
Also hit my pocket hard.
Total cost – oh saints in heaven –
Two hundred and forty seven!
A little more, I have to say,
Then paying five euro each way.
Low-fare airline? Sadly not –
‘Tis on a par with Aeroflot
And Delta Airways, KLM
And all the flaming rest of them.

And then, when all was sourly paid,
The grim discovery was made
That, far from coming in to land
Somewhere in Oslo’s hinterland,
“Oslo Airport” in fact lay
A whopping seventy miles away,
A salient and pointed fact
That mocks the Trades Description Act.

When Mick O’Leary, as he must,
Returns to ashes and to dust,
I hope St. Peter will be fair
To this proud boss of Ryanair
And let him in for five good deeds,
Which Michael, I am sure, concedes
Is quite an insubstantial price
To pay for ent’ring Paradise.
And when the deeds are called to mind
And Michael’s joy is unconfined,
I hope St. Peter says “Be still!
There’s many extras on this bill.
There’s all the taxes, handling fees –
The cost is rising by degrees –
(Sad you missed our Sale extensions)
Can I check that bag’s dimensions?
Now, where was I? You’ve been told
That putting baggage in the hold
Incurs a further price to pay
Although you’re travelling just one way?”

And may St. Peter says that he’s a
Stickler for the charge for Visa,
And, all in all, the charge for heaven –
Two hundred and forty seven
Deeds of beneficial worth
Done by Michael down on earth.

And if perchance, he can recall
Enough good deeds to pay for all,
May Peter throw those great gates wide
And beckon M.O’L inside,
Adding in a cheery way,
“It’s seventy miles thaddaway.”

This was my entry for the Strokestown 2009 humorous verse competition. To my surprise, I was shortlisted again (third time in four years) and was absolutely thrilled to bits when it finished second! I suppose I had my Big Day last year when The Poverty Trap won and I couldn't argue with the winner, Sean Lyons, whose poem about buying a pair of trousers was delivered with great comic timing and insight.

Poem for Seamus Heaney at 70

2009-04-14T05:08:00.001-07:00

Congratulations Seamus
As you reach this milestone age.
You have managed to inflame us
With your words upon the page.

As a poet, the clear fact is
Your whole life’s in black and white,
And with a bit of practice,
I am sure you’ll get it right.

Some might struggle ‘gainst the bin tax,
Others fight for the deported.
You have struggled with your syntax
But I’m sure you’ll get it sorted.

You possess a sense of timing
That is often called inspired,
Though perhaps your skill at rhyming
Leaves a lot to be desired.

But I don’t want to deflate you,
Or to criticise your views,
For, in truth, I think it’s great you
Still seek out the poet’s Muse.

So a happy birthday Seamus,
Keep on working on the book.
Sure, one day you might be famous
With a little bit of luck.

Sketching Taoisigh on the loo

2009-03-26T21:01:00.000-07:00

Photo RTE

The Irish are a lawless race,
Duplicit and conniving.
Within this god-forsaken place,
The criminals are thriving.
Thieves and robbers,
Double jobbers,
Hard-nosed killers too,
But worst of all is one who sketches
Taoisigh on the loo.

This sick and evil misanthrope
Remains a shady figure.
The Gardai simply cannot cope
Whene’er the masses snigger.
This evil crime
Requires that time
And money’s spent to foil it.
But they can’t catch the man who sketches
Taoisigh on the toilet.

Thank God the Gards have made it known
Crime tolerance is zero.
To some, this arty Al Capone
Is some kind of a hero.
His sick mind fuels
Deluded fools
Who praise his evil plan
To overthrow the country, sketching
Taoisigh on the can.

Soon we will be overrun
By Taoisigh in the buff.
How much painting will be done
‘Ere someone cries ‘Enough!’?
Thank God the law
Is ready for
These cultural attacks
By this foul mastermind who sketches
Taoisigh on the jacks.

Let them leave no stone unturned
To root out this dark villain.
His heinous crimes have even turned
Our thoughts from all the killin’.
Yes, let the force’s
Huge resources
Catch this arty slob
Who’s horrified the country, sketching
Taoisigh on the job.

The St Patrick’s Day exodus

2009-02-26T10:36:00.001-08:00

As they soar through the air
To those shores far and fair,
Oh let us not question the wherefores!
Let us honour them roundly
And toast them all soundly,
With a fly-past from Ireland’s famed airforce.

Do not call it a junket!
‘Tis a myth! Let’s debunk it.
They are not flying off for enjoyment.
It’s a task to be done
To fly off to the sun,
A strategic, political deployment.

For a five star hotel
Can at times be sheer hell,
A veritable purgatory when you
Find yourself far away
From the issues of the day
With nothing to read but a menu.

And the vats of champagne
Do not lessen the pain
Of their selfless but lonely devotion
To promoting our cause
To the dignified bores
Who never show too much emotion.

Oh let’s not be spiteful
Or nasty or frightful
And claim that their morals are iffy.
For they’ll certainly tell us
That we’re all just jealous,
Stuck at home with the freezing grey Liffey.

Our economy’s wrecked
And the country is fecked
But we really should come to our senses.
Why condemn politicians
On their Paddy’s Day missions
For daring to claim their expenses.

Flying out to the sun,
Some might see as great fun
And oftentimes may misconstrue it.
It may cost a few bob
But it’s a tough thankless job -
A blessing on those that would do it.

Yes, its money well spent
And wherever they’re sent
I’m sure they will well represent us.
Oh a shame on you cynics
In your sarcasm clinics.
Get back to your local Job Centres!

The buses are going on strike again

2009-02-17T23:43:00.000-08:00

The buses are going on strike again
It’s just been announced on the news,
Inflicting their annual dosage of pain,
As people put on sturdy shoes.

It seems that they do it whenever they like
They don’t seem to need much excuse.
Just give them a reason and they’ll go on strike,
However obscure or obtuse.

The buses need painting? The depot’s unsightly?
They’re raising the price of a ticket?
We don’t take industrial action lightly –
Sure it’s weeks since we last formed a picket.

Some people may wonder if going on strike
Was the bus drivers’ only real option.
Was forcing Joe Public to get on his bike
The sole motion down for adoption?

Were there other options, we’d all like to know
To bidding commuters aloha?
Well no – for the call to adopt a go-slow
Was thrown out - for they can’t go much slower.

The great Dublin Airport Authority

2009-02-09T12:23:00.001-08:00

When the cold of the morning is bitingly keen,
I will climb in my Yaris to find
The windscreen caught fast in a thick icy sheen
And I’m sitting there totally blind.

It happens quite often when winter takes grip,
The jug of cold water’s prepared.
When the tone of the air has a definite grip,
My windscreen is often ensnared.

So please tell me why, with each cold snap foreseen,
The airport has but one de-icer,
And planes are left standing when they should have been
Arriving in climates far nicer?

Just one lone machine to go ‘round every plane
And give them a two-minute spray,
While ordin’ry folk off to Greece or to Spain
Are left cursing the shaggin’ delay.

Most other airports in Europe’s chill parts
De-ice as a matter of course.
They quickly negate bitter Winter’s cruel darts
And let his cold hand feel the force.

But no, here in Dublin, why should we prepare
For freeze-ups that happen quite often?
Sure, why should the airport authority care
If the ice takes an ice-age to soften?

Having it both ways

2009-01-29T12:28:00.000-08:00

Yes they told us it had been
The finest Government we’d seen,
Responsible for economic boom.
The leadership was given,
The economy was driven
And Ireland’s global stock began to zoom.

‘Twas great Government, they said,
Unsurprising that it led
To a wave of most unparalleled prosperity.
Our finances truly soared
As the Celtic tiger roared
With bravado and defiance, not temerity.

But now dear old Ireland’s fecked,
The economy is wrecked
And suddenly the focus has been shifted.
The world recession is to blame
For this unemployment shame
And the plaudits, once so loud, have slowly shifted.

It’s a worldwide fiscal crisis
That affects our costs and prices –
The Government is really just a victim.
And poor Brian, what can he do
But shut his eyes and see it through?
It’s so unfair how journalists depict him.

Barrack Obama’s Inauguration Speech

2009-01-22T15:41:00.000-08:00

We had a sense of hist’ry in the making,
The dawning of a new and golden age.
The earth stood still – my wizened hands were shaking,
All eyes upon this man upon the stage.

The rhetoric flew down to earth like manna
And landed on our aching, yearning ears.
From Washington to Brisbane and Fermanagh,
We answered him with loud, affirming cheers.

For half an hour he spoke with deep conviction.
We marvelled at how well the message flowed.
With clarity of purpose and of diction
Into people’s consciences he strode.

Black and white and young and old united,
We listened as the neck-hairs stood on end.
We felt that every past wrong would be righted,
A President ‘pon whom we could depend.

A speech with all the elements of drama,
We sat back overwhelmed when he was done.
Then Rasher pointed to Michelle Obama
And said, “Begod, I’d like to give her one.”

Goodbye Dubya

2009-01-14T14:59:00.000-08:00

They claim he was a fool, this man
Who made up words and grinned inanely,
Who sent troops to Afghanistan
Where still their gait remains ungainly,
Who turned his anti-terror plan
Against Iraq, sans judge or jury,
Serving simply but to fan
The flames of fundamental fury.

They claim he was a mere buffoon,
A pygmy when great height was needed,
Who howled in anger at the moon
When economic boom receded,
Who whistled aye the self-same tune
When ears were closed to that old number,
Who toddled off to bed too soon,
Escaping into blissful slumber.

Hist’ry, though, will scarcely find him
Dim, when all the books are written.
Rather, led by those behind him –
Shadows that bewitched a kitten.
Pow’rful forces that did blind him
To the line ‘twixt right and wrong,
Puppeteers that have defined him
As the man that tagged along.

Dear John

2008-10-26T02:20:00.000-07:00

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
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Hating old people

2008-10-17T06:53:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-30T21:31:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-30T21:30:00.000-07:00

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

2008-09-30T19:52:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-02T03:00:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-02T02:58:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-01T01:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-01T00:56:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-01T00:51:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-01T00:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

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?

2008-05-27T14:23:00.002-07:00

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

2008-05-25T05:22:00.000-07:00

(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

2008-05-06T02:45:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-25T07:12:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-25T01:45:00.001-07:00

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

2008-03-25T01:43:00.001-07:00

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

2008-03-09T01:04:00.001-08:00

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

2008-03-06T09:29:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-03T13:39:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-26T11:10:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-19T08:48:00.001-08:00

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

2008-02-19T08:46:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-17T07:26:00.000-08:00

(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

2008-02-10T10:17:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-22T04:47:00.000-08:00

(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.

The Government to Lead by Example

2007-08-12T12:17:00.000-07:00

Civil servants to decentralise

Relocation, relocation, relocation –
Harsh music to a civil servant’s ears.
The Government’s attempts at mass plantation
Have not addressed our culchie-phobic fears.

“The countryside is lovely,” says the Minister.
“Not charcoal grey, but vivid green and brown.
Please do not think it underhand or sinister
That we are trying to get you out of town.

‘Facilities outside the Pale are ample,
There is no need for city centre trekkin’
The Government will set you an example
And relocate en masse to Termonfeckin.

‘The Termonfeckin countryside is bracing,
The traffic doesn’t pass by at a crawl,
Though one of the great challenges we’re facing
Is where to build our Termonfeckin Daìl.

‘The local GAA has volunteered
To let us use their clubhouse twice a week,
And a megaphone will needs-be commandeered,
And passed around when someone wants to speak.

‘The Termonfeckin natives are delighted,
The local landlords rub their hands in glee.
Their love for us will not go unrequited –
We’ll help to bolster their economy.

‘Protestors now will chain themselves to railings
Outside of Ma O’Reilly’s corner shop.
The Termonfeckin Daìl may have its failings
But the march of progress can’t be seen to stop.

‘Presidents will come to Termonfeckin,
Heads of state put up in Keenan’s pub.
Some might find the ceilidh quite head-wreckin’
But Molly does a lovely bit of grub.

‘So follow our example, Doubting Thomas,
Fill your lungs with Termonfeckin air.
Let us all augment our rural commerce,
And give the Termonfeckin lads their share.

County Louth has such attractive scenery,
With grassy knoll and lovely shady dell.
I guarantee you all that wondrous greenery
Will not become a Termonfeckin hell.”

Yes, the Termonfeckin Minister has shown us,
Our inertia is attributed to greed.
How can we claim a relocation bonus
When our Termonfeckin TDs take the lead?

I’ve Seen the Future of Eurovision

2007-08-12T12:16:00.000-07:00

Heavy metal act wins Eurovision

Those manic Finns
With monster grins
And high-watt insurrection,
Have turned the whole of Eurovision
In a new direction.

A lilting song
‘Bout Ding Dang Dong
Or raindrops on a petal
Has now been rendered obsolete
By thumping heavy metal.

From Ballyfree to Roumanie,
From Iceland to Albania,
They’ll grow their hair in homage to
This retro metal mania.

The powerful ballad’s
Last year’s salad,
Banging heads makes winners,
While Iron Maiden records serve
As textbooks for beginners.

Our Daniel oughta
Feel the water,
Get his act together,
Don the knuckledusters and
The whips and chains and leather.

The bonny air
Is far too square,
Oh Dan, give up the preaching,
Grab the mike and give us all
Some high-falsetto screeching.

For Europe’s sweet
On driving beat
And shouted, twisted vocals,
And Mammy’s charms and loved one’s arms
Will not impress the locals.

So, like the Finn,
Let’s all buy in,
And make a bold decision
To swan around in Death’s Head masks
For next year’s Eurovision.

Mary Wasn’t There

2007-08-12T12:15:00.000-07:00

Mary Harney fails to attend the nurses conference in Ballyconnell

In Ballyconnell, things were tense,
Suspicion filled the air.
In drizzling rain,
They searched in vain –
For Mary wasn’t there.

From Bawnboy up to Cavan town,
They searched each park and square,
Those fools who thought
She could be caught! –
Ha! Mary wasn’t there.

The matron did not see a thing,
As far as she’s aware.
That icy blast
That just blew past?
No, Mary wasn’t there.

They grilled each nurse and checked I.D.
And tugged all facial hair.
Deeds underfoot
Suspected, but
Bould Mary wasn’t there.

Detectives monitored the hall
And noted every stare,
And cameras panned
And swept and scanned –
But Mary wasn’t there.

Shop stewards loudly gnashed their teeth
And broke down in despair,
For she’s too smart,
A dame apart! –
Sweet Mary wasn’t there.

Who is that lady muffled up
Beyond the spotlight’s glare?
It couldn’t be!
For patently
Bould Mary wasn’t there.

That damned elusive pimpernel
Prepared her ground with care.
Invisible?
That’s risible –
For Mary wasn’t there.

Her aura settled o’er the stage,
So palpable and rare.
But no-one saw
Her features for
Bould Mary wasn’t there.

Big Chief Sitting Bull

2007-08-12T12:13:00.000-07:00

Bertie's mascara bill shocks the nation

They say that the total’s ridiculous,
And comes pretty close to insanity,
His make-up expense
Doesn’t make any sense,
And why, in the name of humanity,
Should we pay for our leader’s great vanity?

But Bertie defends the extravagance,
With arms waving round like a thresher.
Despite the great mirth, it
Is clear that he’s worth it,
And under political pressure
To make his appearance look fresher.

It’s ever been thus, he says blithely,
Way back to the High Kings of Tara.
A man needs his blusher
When visiting Russia,
And, when in the burning Sahara,
A leader must carry mascara.

Eye-liner is part of the armoury,
A decided political plus.
DeValera wore rouge
On State Visits to Bruges,
Without such inordinate fuss,
And nobody called him a wuss.

The televised Daìl shows no mercy,
The cameras zoom in without pity,
And only a dipstick
Would not apply lipstick,
For though the discussions are gritty,
It’s vital the speakers look pretty.

George Bush comes across quite assertive,
When speaking in south Mississippi.
With face caked in powder,
His voice becomes louder,
And, if he’s used plenty of lippy,
He won’t come across wet and drippy.

No five o’clock shadow for Bertie,
The toner goes on pretty straight.
Like Mohican or Sioux,
With his face in full view,
There’s one thing he needs to look great –
The foundation (he says) of the state.

So lay off attacks on our Taoiseach,
His motives are pure and untainted.
For Chirac and Blair
Both aspire to look fair
And people with whom they’re acquainted
Say they’re not as bad as they’re painted.

The Ways of the World will Apply

2007-08-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

A euphemism that came out of one of the Tribunals for a bribe...

When I was a lad,
I went up to my Dad,
With my brow in a bit of a sweat.
And I said, “Daddy, please,
If I went on my knees,
Would you buy me some form of a pet?”
He glanced idly down
At my deep, worried frown,
And remarked with a wink in his eye,
“A dog or a cat?
Well, I hope you know that
The ways of the world will apply.”

At driving-test time,
I committed the crime
Of ascending the pavement in error.
And I drove through the town,
Knocking old people down,
And spreading sheer panic and terror.
When the test was complete,
I glanced down at his sheet.
“Have I passed?” I enquired, by and by.
Well, he paused for a while,
Then intoned, with a smile,
“The ways of the world will apply.”

I courted a lassie
From East Tallahassie,
A raven-haired, bright Southern belle.
I fancied my chances,
So took her to dances,
And brought her McDonalds as well.
I asked, when we’d done,
“Do you fancy some fun?
I do hope, my dear, you’ll comply.”
She replied “Kindest sir,
I’m inclined to concur,
But the ways of the world will apply.”

We had a fine daughter
And strove to support ‘er,
As any good parents would do.
But she turned out to be
The ruination of me,
When I had believed her so true.
I came home one night,
Unbelievably tight,
After too many whiskeys and rye.
I said, “Don’t tell your Mam!”
She said “When in a jam,
The ways of the world will apply.”

In my bed, nearing death,
As I faced my last breath,
My family summonsed the priest.
And I said, “Father, tell,
Am I destined for Hell,
When my poor aching body’s deceased?
He looked at me oddly,
Expression ungodly,
Then, jingling his change, did reply,
“Sure, God has his ways,
But to use an old phrase,
The ways of the world will apply.”

The Fianna Faíl Circus is Back in Town

2007-08-12T12:09:00.000-07:00

Self evident...

The Fianna Faíl Circus is back in town,
Always guaranteed a decent clown,
Ringside tickets only half a crown
When the Fianna Faíl Circus is back in town.

Out comes the elephant into the night,
The crowd all holler with great delight.
Oh, never was seen such a wonderful sight
It’s the P-Pars elephant and it is white.

Ivor the Cannonball kid was tired,
He couldn’t get the help the job required.
Despite his protestations, though, it transpired,
That Bertie lit the fuse and he was fired.

Oh yes, the Fianna Faíl Circus is back in town,
Leotards shimmering and noses brown,
The acrobats tumble till the sun goes down
When the Fianna Faíl Circus is back in town.

Sean’s upset, he doesn’t know what to do,
He’s sick of cleaning out the lion’s pooh.
He says he wants a job with the performing crew,
But Bertie will not grant him an interview.

Síle says to Bertie, “Won’t you help me please?
I need someone to catch me on the high trapeze.”
Bertie says, “No problem! It’ll be a breeze!”
But he gives a sly smile as he hangs by his knees.

Oh, the Fianna Faíl Circus is back in town,
The Chief Whip appears in his dressing gown,
The price of admission may cause a frown
But the Fianna Faíl Circus is back in town.

From up in the cheap seats, there’s heckles at
The murky machinations of the acrobat.
Bertie shields his eyes and he waves at Pat,
But Enda isn’t too impressed at that.

Cracking the whip is the ringmaster’s art,
Though you mustn’t upset the apple-cart.
In top hat and tails, he’s dressed for the part,
Though many people say he’s too Billy Smart.

Oh yes, the Fianna Faíl Circus is back in town,
A Big Top performance of great renown,
They don’t have a net, just an eiderdown
When the Fianna Faíl Circus is back in town.

The Chinese Year of the SSIA

2007-08-12T12:07:00.000-07:00

Not everybody has a SSIA

It won’t be too long till we’re all feeling flush,
And by golly, we’re counting the days.
The banks won’t be able to handle the crush
When we queue for our SSIAs.
We’ll be buying new motors and building extensions,
Jetting abroad for artistic conventions,
Dining out daily and topping up pensions,
And we’ll all act a little bit flash.

They’ll keep the shops open all day and all night
To cash in on Ireland’s new wealth.
Champagne corks will pop to an excessive height,
As we drink to our financial health.
We’ll be counting out notes with our palms hot and sweaty,
Twirling them round on our forks like spaghetti,
Throwing them up in the air like confetti,
When we all get a hold of our stash.

Knee-deep in money, we’ll wade through the land,
With great wads sticking out of our coats.
And sitting room walls will look stylish and grand
When they’re papered with ten Euro notes.
The good times are coming, we’ll be in the pink,
We’re all going to spend a small fortune on drink,
Your missus will hoover the house wearing mink,
And your car will look sporty and brash.

All through the country, there’ll be such a buzz
When our SSIAs all mature.
We’ll all come up roses, though many of us
Might still catch the whiff of manure.
No need to be stingy, from that great day hence,
We’ll hand out the plastic with great confidence,
Oh, we might well have Euros, but will we have cents
When we all get our hands on the cash?

But out there, forgotten, are thousands of folk
Who will not share our celebrations.
Half of the country is constantly broke,
As if there were two different nations.
That old Celtic tiger passed by, round the bend
For those who weren’t part of the general trend,
And they will look on as we spend, spend and spend,
Displaying our bounteous panache.

Stringfellows

2007-08-12T12:05:00.000-07:00

Lap dancing club comes to Dublin

I heard that they gave him permission
To open a new dancing club,
A bare boob and bum exhibition
For many a red-blooded Dub.

There’ll be big, bouncing backsides all week,
Despite all the moralists’ flak,
Some say that it’s just bare-faced cheek,
Some say they’ll just go for the craic.

But the Equal Opportunities chaps,
Can’t figure the legal controls –
How can they have pole-dancing Lapps,
But they cannot have lap-dancing Poles?

Lets Go Penalty Point Crazy!

2007-08-12T12:02:00.000-07:00

Penalty points for a host of new traffic offences...

The Minister has flexed his joints.
All credit, I suppose.
He’s introduced these penalty points
To keep us on our toes.
I’m sure he’ll be delighted
To receive my firm endorsement,
Provided it’s united
With the threat of real enforcement.
For yes, a problem does exist,
He needs to show he’s tough,
Though really this extensive list
Does not go far enough.
Let’s give our Gardaí extra power!
Ignore the legal questions!
I’m sure there’s many who will cower
At my proposed suggestions: -

For anyone who picks their nose,
A youngster or old fogey,
Traffic wardens should impose
A point for every bogey.
For anyone who does their hair,
Or re-applies their make-up,
Man or woman, I don’t care –
Two points should make them wake up.
Those who use the left hand lane
To overtake at junctions
Should really get to feel the pain
Of law-enforcement functions.
Rolling back a foot or so
When starting on a hill
Deserves a point or two to go,
In my new traffic bill.
And those who will not indicate
When on a roundabout
Have little cause to get irate
If points are meted out.
Cracked exhausts that belch out smoke,
And youths with music blaring.
Yellow cars are just a joke –
In fact, I find them glaring.
Windows that proclaim ‘No Fear’
And fluffy dice a-dangling,
Drivers stuck in second gear,
All leave the nerve ends jangling.

I well accept the list above
Might have a few detractors,
And I’ll admit I’d really love
If everyone drove tractors.
But one transgression outstrips all
And cannot be forgiven.
It’s seen from Rathlin to Rockall,
Wherever cars are driven.
Yes, Minister, you are the man,
The only flame that flickers –
You must enforce a total ban
On Man United stickers.

An Unprovoked Attack

2007-08-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

Astronomers fired a missile into a comet for scientific research purposes

‘Twas only a comet, a poor harmless comet,
Searing a trail through the blackness of space,
All kinds of gases were streaming out from it,
This poor, harmless comet we chose to deface.

It wasn’t a danger to human existence,
Trajectory-wise, it would come nowhere near.
It gave no offence and it showed no resistance,
The sizable distance held nothing to fear.

It minded its business, while shining out brightly,
Its orbit a million miles distant from ours,
But scientists charted it daily and nightly,
And thought it unsightly, compared to the stars.

The ambush was sprung and the signal was triggered,
The missile flew out in a one-sided war.
The large, gaping hole in its surface was figured
To render it jiggered right down to the core.

Why did we attack it, this beautiful body,
Slicing through space in its innocent bliss?
The arguments for it are futile and shoddy –
In truth, there’s nobody can justify this.

It still stumbles blindly, this sad, wounded comet,
Shot down inhumanely for human conceit.
Great oceans of red blood are streaming out from it,
This poor, harmless comet now dead on its feet.

Dolores MacNamara

2007-08-12T11:59:00.000-07:00

The multi-million Euro lottery winner

Dolores MacNamara has found instant wealth and fame,
Her name’s on everybody’s lips this week.
The solitary winner of the Euro lottery game.
The subject of each media critique.

Hypothetical discussions, what to do if in her shoes,
Should she go ahead and spend, spend, spend?
Will she handpick villas with incredible sea views?
Or will the money drive her round the bend?

We’ve all dished out the millions to relations and to friends,
Discussed the charities that we would choose,
Vowed to take cognizance of the economic trends,
Once we’d spent a fortnight on the booze.

The thing that stuns me is she’s only number seventy two
In the current list of Ireland’s super rich.
How can so many people be so bleedin’ well-to-do,
While millions more complain that life’s a bitch?

It’s hard for us to fathom such a many-zeroed sum,
While squashed in on the number twenty two.
Hanging on for hours with a pushchair up your bum
And a brolly dripping gaily on your shoe.

But Dolores MacNamara, I just wish her all the best,
She represents the hopes and dreams of all.
Her conscience and good judgement will be soon put to the test,
When the letters start to pile up in the hall.

But will it make her happy? I hear many people say.
Would she not be better off with nowt?
I cannot hand on heart give any answer either way,
But I’d love to have the chance of finding out.

A Grim Warning to all Others

2007-08-11T14:03:00.000-07:00

Clock changing time

‘Twas in the small hours of the night,
I saw a blue and flashing light.
And then began the klaxon’s wail,
Like some demented nightingale.
Throwing back the crocheted spread
I clambered quickly from my bed,
And to the curtained window flew
To get a better, grandstand view,
For crime, thank God, is very rare
Along our quiet thoroughfare.
I watched the squad car turn the bend
And make its way toward our end.
I squinted round the curtain’s drop
To see exactly where he’d stop.
Perhaps those lads at fifty four
Were on the wrong side of the law?
Or maybe him at sixty one
Was really someone on the run?
But holy moley, saints alive!
The squad car turned into my drive!

I put on socks and dressing gown
And very sharply hurried down
To answer their insistent knock
At very nearly two o’clock.
The neighbours would be wide awake,
Not knowing this was some mistake.
They must have seen the squad car come
And heard the pandemonium,
And now my name was likely mud
Throughout this genteel neighbourhood.

I pulled the bolt and turned the key
And opened up the door to see
Two burly cops, grim-faced and armed,
Which made me very much alarmed.
One yelled my name, and I said, “Yes?”
And in my state of half-undress,
They pushed me down upon the floor,
As shock ran through my every pore.
I felt as though I might be sick,
On hearing those strong handcuffs click.
They read my rights, and when complete,
They hauled me brusquely to my feet
And bundled me into the car,
As neighbours gawped from near and far.

I sit here in my prison cell,
A malcontented ne’er-do-well,
And wonder what ungodly fate
Awaits this surly reprobate.
At first, I’d claimed my innocence,
But knew full well I’d no defence.
The clocks they brought into the court
Exposed my guilt in words and thought.
There really was no need to show
That they were all an hour slow.
And sweet Anne Doyle, from RTE,
Stood on the stand unflinchingly
And told the jury to peruse
The transcripts of the evening news.

Yes, I’d been warned and paid no heed,
A criminal in thought and deed.
The clocks were changed at one o’clock,
And I admitted from the dock
That though the hour had come and gone,
Oh shame! I’d never wound them on.
I face a future breaking rocks
For daring to ignore those clocks.
Ironic though, that this foul crime
Will mean I end up doing time.

Who’s Next After Baghdad?

2007-08-11T14:02:00.000-07:00

Politicians urged to pull "our boys" out of the Aussie Rules series down under due to the violence

Those images of blood and violence
Screamed across our screens in silence.
Numbed, we all in horror studied
Pictures of the bowed and bloodied,
Gasping pain with every breath,
Praying for a quick, clean death,
While we, safe in our pristine houses
Hugged our parents, children, spouses.

Kofi Annan, dodging flak,
Condemned this unprovoked attack,
And said that he could not endorse
This unrelenting use of force.
The United Nations, he said grimly,
Viewed this situation dimly,
And very soon it would begin
To send the first peacekeepers in.

George announced that he was vexed,
And threatened to invade them next.
How could he allow this schism
Propogate such terrorism?
The Allies, he announced to cheers,
Would move to quell our darkest fears,
While Tony Blair, thus subtlely prodded,
Sagely looked around and nodded.

Back at home, the campaign grew
To make sure that our boys withdrew.
The coalition vowed to strive
To bring survivors home alive.
And Bertie showed distinct unease
When hearing anguished parents’ pleas.
But still maintained the great pretence
Of sitting blithely on the fence.

Flags of freedom were unfurled
At embassies around the world,
As millions joined in the procession
To condemn this base aggression.
And as the world recoiled in pain
It struggled madly to explain
The reasons for the dismal failure
Of Compromise Rules, down in Australia.

Too Much Budget, Not Enough Ronan

2007-08-11T14:01:00.000-07:00

Cutting the Ronan Collins radio show for the Budget...

When innocent, and very young,
The Budget left me stewing.
Though I was forced to hold my tongue,
It spoiled my TV viewing.
And still, though quite advanced in years,
I bitterly begrudge it.
Where’s Ronan gone?
He should be on,
And not the bleedin’ Budget.

Okay, we should show int’rest in
The economic axis,
And listen to bold Brian’s spin
On pension funds and taxes.
But a big decision must be made.
Oh RTE, don’t fudge it.
The world stops turning
When Brian’s churning
Out the boring Budget.

Put it on the Six One News
And quiz financial analysts.
Certainly, let’s hear the views
Of Prime Time’s expert panellists.
But Ronan’s far more popular,
As far as I can judge it,
His song and chat
Far outstrips that
Most soporific Budget.

So RTE, next year pay heed
To list’ners to your station.
This Budget overkill doth breed
Significant frustration.
That dial upon the radio –
It don’t take much to nudge it.
From three to five,
We don’t need live
Transmission of the Budget.

For those poor anoraks who crave
Financial absolution,
Put it on the Medium Wave –
Sure, that’s the best solution.
That Budget Road is long and hard,
So please don’t make us trudge it.
Please hear our voice,
Give us the choice
Of Ronan or the Budget.

The Journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis

2007-08-11T13:59:00.000-07:00

Fianna Fail Ard Fheis time..

Beside the coach, the TDs all assembled,
All sniggering at Minister McDowell.
With holdalls clasped in hands, they quite resembled
Some third years on a day trip out of school.
They had their cheeks all squeezed by Mary Harney,
Who straightened up their ties till they looked neat.
Mary O’Rourke could not go to Killarney,
Because, she said, she hadn’t got a seat.
The Minister for Pre-School Education
Admitted that he hadn’t found a crèche,
So his daughter, who was three,
Sat forlornly on his knee
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.

The traffic on the quays was quite atrocious,
The coach was overtaken by a snail.
And Micheal Martin’s slagging was ferocious,
Although he blamed it all on Fine Gael.
Poor old Seamus Brennan got his hair wet
When someone sprayed him with a can of ale.
He kept on asking Bertie, “Are we there yet?”
Although the coach had not yet left the Pale.
Mary Coughlan sang a mournful ballad,
About a heart that beauty might enmesh,
While the messers down the back
Feigned a vomiting attack
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.

Brian Cowan went around collecting money
Which, people said, was one of his great talents.
Though everyone declared it was quite funny
That he couldn’t get the final sums to balance.
Then with the bus approaching Monasterevin
They stopped to take an urgent toilet-break.
The hedgerow there that bordered the N7
Soon found that it was standing in a lake.
And when the haze of steam had dissipated,
And everyone had put away the flesh,
Bould Síle turned to Mary
And said,”Blimey, that was hairy!”
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.

Down the back, there was a brief kerfuffle,
As several people sneaked up on Dick Roche,
And after quite a brief, one-sided scuffle,
A pair of trousers flew out of the coach.
Then through the loud guffaws and hearty joking,
The pungent whiff of stale tobacco blew.
Someone naughty on the coach was smoking,
And Micheal Martin went to find out who.
But the messers down the back were most indignant,
Proclaiming that the air was sweet and fresh.
But when Micheal had gone away,
They all lit up a Craven A,
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.

A squad car flagged them down on leaving Nenagh,
The constable kicked up a mighty fuss.
He swore that in his headlights he had seen a
Crowd of people mooning out the bus.
And as the crossed the Limerick / Kerry border,
Bertie rose, with can of Bass aloft.
The Chief Whip very loudly called for order
(“Make mine a Gin and Tonic!” someone scoffed.)
“Dermot’s getting visas,” stated Bertie,
“And next year’s bash will be in Marrakech.
So, if you all still follow me,
You will get your duty free
On the journey to the Fianna Fáil Árd Fheis.”

The Board of Irish Ferries to Lead by Example?

2007-08-11T13:58:00.000-07:00

The Board of Irish Ferries are laying off all their Irish staff and replacing them with cheap Baltic labour

The Board of Irish Ferries has been blasted from a height,
Accused of shabby practices by all.
But let us reconsider if just maybe they are right
To give the lads from Latvia a call.

Their message is quite simple – everyone can be replaced
By cheaper staff from Vilnius and Riga.
The truth, though quite distasteful, must be resolutely faced,
Those Baltic lads are ready and they’re eager.

Our football team’s new manager, whoever he may be
Should maybe start to realign his goals.
Perhaps we’d get to qualify for tournaments if he
Replaced our back four with a set of Poles.

Yes, Eddie from Estonia and Tom from Tallinn Town
Have skills that are impressive and extensive.
Far be it from me to run the Irish workforce down,
But Jaysus, we’re incredibly expensive.

These fellers will do anything to earn a full day’s pay,
Like hosing down the streets or picking cherries.
They’d even run the Government, or play in goal for Bray,
Or maybe run the Board of Irish Ferries?

Yes, let Irish Ferries management stand up and show the way,
A shining light to every friend and neighbour!
Let them all resign en masse, forego their massive pay
And replace themselves with cheaper Baltic labour.

Oh Ivor

2007-08-11T13:56:00.000-07:00

Ivor Callely, Government Minister of State, allegedly tries to bribe a member of his staff to stay on...

Oh Ivor, won’t you buy me
A Mercedes Benz?
At least run it by me -
No way it offends!
I really don’t care ‘bout the signal it sends,
Just go ahead and buy me a Mercedez Benz.

Oh Ivor, won’t you buy me
A spanking new Jag?
My pushbike is grimy,
A bit of a drag.
Throw my coat over puddles and carry your bag,
If only you’d buy me a spanking new Jag.

Oh Ivor, won’t you buy me
An Audi A4?
I’m Peter, so fly me,
Your slave evermore.
I’ll deliver your leaflets to every damned door,
And all for the price of an Audi A4.

Oh Ivor, won’t you buy me
A Renault Megane?
I never would stymie
Your electoral plan.
Yes, I’d be forever a Callely man,
If you nipped out and got me a Renault Megane.

Oh Ivor, won’t you buy me
An Opel Kadett?
Oh please don’t deny me,
My heart is quite set.
Your seat in North Dublin won’t come under threat,
If you’d just see your way to an Opel Kadett.

Oh Ivor, won’t you buy me
A Daewoo Matiz?
There’s no need to ply me
With crates of Bucks Fizz,
I’d shout from the rooftops that you are the biz,
If you’d hand me the keys to a Daewoo Matiz.

Oh Ivor, won’t you buy me
A Honda Accord?
If you would just try me,
You’d reap the reward,
My ride needs a-pimping and you can afford
To buy me, oh Ivor, a Honda Accord.

Leave them alone, they’ve suffered enough

2007-08-11T13:55:00.000-07:00

"Take That" announce they're playing Belfast's Odyssey Arena

Traffic jams deliver strife
To Roscrea and to Nenagh.
Inflation, so they say, is rife
On down in Argentina.
Moscow ganglords flout the law,
Ignoring each subpoena,
And tensions bubble to the fore
In Mecca and Messina.

But Belfast is the toughest place,
The streets are so much meaner,
Although they now no longer face
The terrorist hyena.
Not long now since suspicion fell
On every Ford Cortina,
Emerging from that living hell,
Their hopes are so much keener.

They’d all expressed the hopeful views
That now the air was cleaner,
But now this latest piece of news
Has shocked the Belfast Fianna.
This quite disgraceful coup d’étât
Could not be more obscener.
Imagine putting on “Take That”
At the Odyssey Arena!

Leave our Trousers Alone!

2007-08-11T13:53:00.000-07:00

Women commenting on the unfashionability of men's trousers? Whatever next?

Everybody knows the passion
Women (bless ‘em) have for fashion.
Shape of skirt or style of blouson,
Should I put my high heeled shoes on?
Leather, suede, acrylic, wool,
Every style imaginable
Is stuffed into their wardrobe’s lair,
Although they claim there’s naught in there.

But now, I see, they’ve started staring
At the trousers we are wearing.
Apparently, it seems to rankle
That we show a shapely ankle,
And it is deemed a tad unpleasant,
Flashing socks with women present.
And no, our flares do not conform
With what should constitute the norm.
They’re far too thin or far too wide
Or trail the ground with every stride.

And belts should sit upon the hips!
What? Even when we’re stuffed with chips?

We should tell our errant spouses,
To get their eyes off menfolk’s trousers,
Or else we’ll tell you, plain and pat,
That yes, your bum looks big in that.

I Had a Dream

2007-08-11T13:51:00.000-07:00

Our Transport Minister's vision of a gridlock-free transport system may well come too latefor many of us...

Last night, as clouds pulled hazy shrouds
Across the Milky Way,
I dreamt I flew with wonder to
A bright but distant day.
I hit the ground and spun around
Beneath the rosy skies –
A sparkling world lay there, unfurled,
Before my startled eyes.

No traffic jams, just shiny trams,
All programmed by computer,
A nice, plush seat laid out to greet
Each laughing-eyed commuter.
And Dart trains, too, straight by me flew,
So fast I almost missed ‘em,
‘Twas win, win, win, with this great in-
-Tegrated transport system.

Trav’llers beamed and truly seemed
To be a bit more sparky.
“More time in bed,” an old man said,
“Means people aren’t so narky.
No workday blues in sodden queues,
There’s buses when you need ‘em.
And hence the buzz – it’s given us
A new-found sense of freedom.

I picked up some far-distant hum,
And was, at first, quite puzzled.
Beneath my feet, beneath the street,
I sensed it, faint and muzzled.
A far-off sound, deep underground,
Beneath the nitty-gritty.
The Metro? No! Now in full flow
Way underneath the city.

Across the land, great networks spanned
The country’s once-choked by-ways.
At massive cost, the land was crossed
By wide-laned superhighways.
No lengthy queues on travel news,
No roadworks of frustration,
Just transport bliss inspired by this
Improved communication.

No trucks break down in Mallow town,
The Jack Lynch Tunnel’s flowing.
The Dublin quays all move with ease,
Despite the fact it’s snowing.
With no delays on wintry days,
The A.A. Roadwatch ceases.
With naught to do, the traffic crew
Give up and go to pieces.

But here and there, I sensed despair
Among the opposition.
Fine Gael had gone quite pale
And knelt down in contrition.
For all along, they had been wrong,
And now they were quite sullen.
Where others quivered, he delivered –
The blesséd Martin Cullen.

His statues stand, austere and grand,
At every railway station,
And people pray throughout the day
In silent adoration.
The deaf and dumb (and daft) all come,
Petitioning for kindness,
Because his image, once in Kimmage,
Cured a man of blindness.

Then I awoke, but naught I spoke,
Enveloped in great sorrow,
Because I faced untimely haste
To get to work tomorrow.
Oh yes, we’re cursed, so deep immersed
In gridlock and frustration,
For it is clear, alas, that we’re
The static generation.

And thus I call on bold Michéal
To implement this vision,
To speed the plan as best he can
With consummate incision.
This scheme, one fears, will take ten years,
And only come in phases,
By which time, I’ll be too senile
Or fertilising daisies.

Grimebuster!

2007-08-11T13:50:00.000-07:00

New Health Minister Mary Harney vows to clean up our dirty hospitals

According to some newly-published report,
Our hospitals aren’t quite as clean as we thought.
While doctors and nurses are tirelessly working,
Behind them, bacterial colonies are lurking.
They’re growing on shelves that are dusty and grimy,
Infecting the water to make it taste slimy,
And now they are creeping with sure-footed tread
On the fortunate few who’ve been given a bed.

“Good morning, Mrs. Wilson,” says Doctor Patel,
“I’m sure that your transplant will go really well.
This oil on my hands? Oh, there’s no need to worry,
I managed to fix my flat tyre in a hurry.
You’re right, I’ve no tissues, as you rightly perceive,
And hence the damp patch on the cuff of my sleeve.
Please don’t be alarmed, there is no need to shout,
You know there is nothing to worry about.”

All through the wards, great diseases are spreading.
They’re leaping with joy from the light bulbs to bedding.
A dung-beetle family is putting down roots,
Whilst an army of termites appeals for recruits.
Through grime-coated theatres, the insects are breezing,
And even the dust-mites are helplessly sneezing.
And if patients complain when the bedbugs appear,
They get sent away with a flea in their ear.

But wait! Who is this with a mop in her hand?
The scourge of all pestilence throughout the land!
It’s a bird! It’s a plane! Oh my God, it’s the Minister,
Brandishing stainless steel buckets so sinister
Bold Mary will banish those festering gripes,
Armed with Domestos and surgical wipes.
With Brillos galore and considerable tact,
She’ll get the poor sisters to clean up their act.

The patients are bound to be keenly impressed
By this matronly figure with ‘S’ on her chest,
For though all the dirt is ingrained and quite old,
She won’t sleep a wink till she’s broken the mould.
Down on her knees with her carbolic soap,
In hard to reach corners, she’ll steadfastly grope,
And soon the hygienists will not need to blubber,
For Mary will show she’s one hell of a scrubber.

Eulogy for the P-PARS Lottery

2007-08-11T13:48:00.000-07:00

The P-Pars Payroll system for the Health Service proved to be something of an expensive flop

And so we say farewell, sweet payroll system,
As you ascend with grace to software heaven.
Thousands wail, and thousands more assist ‘em,
The cortege moving slowly to Glasnevin.

You were beloved by many civil servants,
And stoutly and defiantly defended.
The minute’s silence, held with strict observance,
Was practically unanimously attended.

Here a hundred thousand, there a million,
You dished your favours out quite willy-nilly,
And every Doctor Joe and Staff Nurse Gillian
Denies the P-PARS Lottery was silly.

The H.S.E., proactive and inventive
Devised this scheme with governmental data.
Was there ever such a strong incentive
To join the staff at James’s or the Mater?

The wage-slips were distributed fortnightly,
As patients watched in ever-mounting wonder.
Prayers would be intoned with eyes shut tightly,
Before the flimsy slips were ripped asunder.

A feeling of excitement was injected,
From top consultants to the young beginners.
In theatre, great wounds lay unprotected
As surgeons checked to see if they were winners.

And then there’d come a roar from Radiology,
And everyone would think it was a crackpot.
But then the nurse would come with an apology –
“Dr. Ahmed Singh’s just won the jackpot.”

Sometimes there would not be one big winner,
Despite the imprecations to Jehovah.
But nails were chewed and hairlines got much thinner,
Every time a jackpot was rolled over.

The end was very swift and without warning,
There was no time for grief, or bedside dramas,
And flags will fly half-mast today in mourning
On many yachts now moored in the Bahamas.

And so the Last Post sounds above your coffin,
The sense of loss will be profoundly bruising,
Until of course, some other I.T. boffin
Comes up with something equally amusing.

This Sporting Life

2007-08-11T13:39:00.000-07:00

Why can't we just imprison corrupt politicians like other countries?

There is a sport that other nations
Nearly have perfected,
And Ireland, through procrastinations,
Seems to have neglected.
Its worldwide popularity
Goes all the way to Thailand,
But now we see with clarity
Its benefit to this island.

Yes, jailing errant politicians
Ceased when it reached Wales,
As people in empowered positions
Tipped judicial scales.
But attitudes have altered
From the way that people thought,
As reverence has faltered,
So we welcome this new sport.

The public representative
Oft gave us the hard sell,
Taxation quite insensitive,
He gave the workers hell.
But now the sands have shifted,
We will raise a ballyhoo,
The veil of mist has lifted –
He can have a hard cell too.

We’re relishing the battle
And it’s great for our morale.
We’ll round them up like cattle
And restock the old corral.
We’ll break them in heroically
Until their spirit’s broken,
And lead them off quite stoically,
No words of protest spoken.

One’s political persuasion
Does not matter in this fight.
On such a great occasion,
No-one cares ‘bout left or right.
We’ll slap them gaily in the can
For showing no repentance,
And gleefully we’ll give them an
Uninterrupted sentence.

A chance to earn a few more bob,
We’ll hold the trials in Croker.
Get Ticketmaster on the job,
Or any ticket broker.
The public will come flocking in
And pay much more than tuppence
To see an erstwhile Gungha Din
Receive his big come-uppance.

So let’s embrace this new-found thought,
Immerse ourselves profoundly
In anarchic, good-humoured sport –
Incarcerate them soundly!
Let’s show our business acumen,
From Malin Head to Mizen,
Redistribute their pensions when
They’re languishing in prison.

The St Patrick’s Day Parade

2007-08-11T13:32:00.000-07:00

Thank God my kids are too old to be brought to the Patricks Day parade anymore!

Great attention would be paid
To fixing on the green brocade,
And then the journey would be made
To watch the festive cavalcade,
A well-prepared, provisioned raid
Upon the GPO arcade.

Flag sellers did a roaring trade,
Enthusiasm was relayed.
We’d walk with eager step, afraid
We’d get there late and be dismayed,
Though with a fervent heart I prayed
Proceedings wouldn’t be delayed.

Behind the metal barricade
In Henry Street we always stayed,
Adjacent to the colonnade.
Then, hearing marching music played,
We craned and clapped and cheered and swayed
And jumped and laughed and shook and brayed.

We’d watch the lorries that conveyed
The floats embossed with felt and braid,
So colourful, yet well arrayed
With advertising brands displayed
Until, to call a spade a spade,
A sense of boredom would pervade.

Interest began to fade,
Attention very quickly strayed,
Tempers started to get frayed
And I’d launch into a tirade.
My hair was prematurely greyed
By Dublin’s Patrick’s Day parade.

The Spread of Avian Flu and How to Treat It

2007-08-11T13:31:00.000-07:00

Shortlisted in the satire section at Strokestown

As I lay abed one morning,
The radio put out a warning,
And I was quite disconcerted
At the picture that it drew.
From the east, disease was spreading,
To the shores of Ireland heading.
Chicken farmers all were dreading
This new strain of avian flu.
Budgies were morosely shedding
Feathers, due to avian flu.

Down the stairs I tiptoed slowly,
Lest some foul, deranged, unholy
Bird should jump out of the shadows,
As such birds are wont to do.
Then a sound! A chesty wheezing,
In the kitchen, dark and freezing.
Then, the sound of something sneezing?
Ah-ah-aah, ah-Tish! Tishoo!
Or was my active mind just teasing?
Did I really hear “Tishoo?”

Long and hard, I stood and pondered,
Till I gulped a breath and wandered
Through the kitchen door, unsettled
By what might come into view.
There, beside the back door, groaning,
Like a distant aircraft droning,
Hanky poised and softly moaning,
Stood my daughter’s cockatoo.
There, I thought about disowning
My dear daughter’s cockatoo.

But as I stared at this sad creature,
Formerly a strident screecher,
My hard heart was moved to pity
By this bird from Timbuktu.
Unwillingly to me entrusted,
Outlook totally adjusted,
There it stood, distraught, disgusted,
Pondering its life anew.
Eyes awash and beak encrusted,
Looking at its life anew.

Though inclined to be quite cranky,
Round my face I tied a hanky,
Sore afraid that I might catch
The swirling germs that round me flew.
Then I wrapped a towel around him
Which at first did quite dumbfound him,
But I stood where I had found him
Till his trust and calmness grew.
My gentleness did so confound him
Till his trust and calmness grew.

Up the creaking stairs we ventured,
Him still snuffling, me un-dentured.
Into bed I lightly placed him
‘Neath my quilt of royal blue.
And, as his eyelids briefly fluttered,
As he to a deep sleep stuttered,
I do swear he faintly muttered,
“The blessings of the Lord on you.”
True as God, he softly uttered
“May the Lord be good to you.”

Throughout the day he lay half-dreaming,
Nose still running, eyes still streaming,
While I brought up scalding Lemsips
And some bowls of homemade stew,
All of which he guzzled meekly,
Eyeing me somewhat obliquely,
Wheezing hard and smiling weakly,
As I slowly nursed him through.
Coughing globules thick and treacly,
As I helped to pull him through.

That long night, this willing gopher
Slept upon the downstairs sofa
While that bird in my bed tossed
And turned, its feathers all askew.
Then, as light of day came creeping,
I awoke from fitful sleeping,
As a strident cry came sweeping –
Was that not a cock that crew?
No, it was the piercing cheeping
Of my daughter’s cockatoo.

So all of ye scared poultry farmers,
Spreading stories to alarm us,
Do not let your sneezing chickens
Make you turn the air bright blue.
Rather treat them with compassion,
Don’t begrudge their Lemsip ration,
Treat them in a kindly fashion,
With a heart that’s pure and true.
Love those turkeys with a passion
And fend off that avian flu.

The Price of Drink

2007-08-11T13:29:00.002-07:00

Thieves rob a million pounds from a security truck while one of the guards is buying a coffee

The landlords may deny it, and get surly and defensive,
But no-one really argues that the drink here’s inexpensive.
It’s evident the situation’s grown into a crisis
When even Scandinavians complain about our prices.

In Dublin pubs, the pint of plain now costs a pretty packet,
The Government puts up the tax, and all the breweries back it,
And please don’t get me started on the shocking price of mixers –
Small wonder all the tradesmen spend their weekends doing nixers.

Now I’m not greatly into wine, I find it soporific,
But certain wines have price tags which are truly quite horrific.
The viniculture industry is there for you to conquer,
So splash out on some vintage red, become a real plonker.

And whiskey of a certain age can make a tidy figure.
The length of time that it matures, ensures its value’s bigger.
And men, who in all other spheres, are wise as Aristotle,
Would sell their homes in St. Moritz to purchase one small bottle.

Yes, drink is fierce expensive, there are no two ways about it.
The dogs that roam this country’s streets throw back their heads and shout it.
But still it’s hard to credit this week’s rumour doing the rounds
That a single cup of coffee cost a cool three million pounds.

The New Pope

2007-08-11T13:29:00.001-07:00

My wife says I’m a tub of lard,
A fat and useless dope.
So it will catch her off her guard
When I’m elected Pope.

I’ve sent my application off,
And blessed the envelope.
And will my kith and kin still scoff
When I’m announced as Pope?

I may not be religious but
There’s plenty room for scope.
The boot upon the other foot
When I’m elected Pope.

Excited as a schoolgirl who’s
Preparing to elope,
I’ll need another pair of shoes
When I’m announced as Pope.

My father always used to say
Its money for old rope.
I wish he was alive today
To see his son, the Pope.

Although the Bible’s tricky, I
Am sure that I can cope.
I won’t need much to get me by
When I’m installed as Pope.

There’s many folk who say the Church
Is on the slippy slope
But I won’t leave them in the lurch,
So vote for me for Pope.

Some say when blind men lead the blind,
They fumble and they grope,
But don’t you pay them any mind,
I’ll make a brilliant Pope.

“Do you believe in birth control?”
They ask, and I say “Nope.”
You see, I’m perfect for the role.
I’ll surely be the Pope.

Blasphemers of the world, repent
And wash your mouths with soap,
I will not listen to dissent
When I’m pronounced the Pope.

The Cardinals who don’t succeed
May sit around and mope
And mumble the Apostle’s Creed
When I’m announced as Pope.

So get that white smoke churning out
And send this world some hope.
There’ll be some changes, there’s no doubt,
When I’m elected Pope.

The Imminent Demise of Mr Anthony Blair

2007-08-11T13:28:00.000-07:00

Tony has been injured, he’s politically concussed,
The clamour for his resignation’s getting more robust.
It’s clear that he’s regarded with a measure of mistrust,
And the Labour Party’s hoping he’ll spontaneously combust,
He’s won a third election but his leadership is bust,
He’s still holed up in Downing Street though tightly bound and trussed.
The iron man of politics is showing signs of rust.
He still maintains the war he rained down on Iraq was just,
Defending his decision for a military thrust,
Yet still he has this act of being puzzled and nonplussed,
When people ask if it was a humanitarian must.
This oft-repeated question has served constantly to frust-
-Rate the Labour leader as he tries to readjust,
For the country has been covered in this fine volcanic dust,
As many people view him with revulsion and disgust.
The mask has slipped forever and poor Tony has been sussed -
Enthusiasm for the war was bordering on lust,
And now he’s nearly destitute, without a moral crust.
The sands of time are swirling in a great cyclonic gust,
And the name of his successor is now openly discussed.

The European Constitution

2007-08-11T13:27:00.000-07:00

Even the French voted against the new European constitution

The bourgeoisie all sipped their café latté,
And overdosed on too much Belgian pâté,
But now they’re overthrown by revolution
As the French tore up their precious Constitution.

Once more the peasants rose up ‘gainst their masters,
Inflicting one of Europe’s great disasters.
Madame Guillotine performed the execution
When the French killed off this wretched Constitution.

They blame it on extremist propaganda
With strident claims of bias and of slander,
But surely it’s not merely elocution
That caused the French to kill this Constitution?

A founding member state has been effective
In killing off political invective.
Can anybody think of a solution
Now the French have ripped to shreds this Constitution?

The Gallic nation’s seen as very fickle,
But thanks to them, we are not in a pickle.
It saved us lots of bitter retribution
When the French did not adopt this Constitution.

Thank God we’ll all be spared a referendum,
The issues won’t need Bertie to defend ‘em,
Voting slips will not need distribution,
Because the French kicked out this Constitution

One Man’s Word

2007-08-11T13:25:00.000-07:00

Head of the PSNI Hugh Orde claims to have irrefutable evidence that the IRA perpetrated the Northern Bank robbery, yet doesn't seem to be able to produce any evidence to back it up

A man like Hugh Orde
Isn’t often ignored,
When he moves to express his opinions.
His words carry weight
And of course must relate
To the work carried out by his minions.

But ideas must be backed
By a semblance of fact.
His reasons must clearly be stated.
The cause for his views
Must be there to peruse,
Or else he’s too easily slated.

He has spoken at length
On the IRA’s strength,
And has shouted their guilt from a height.
But the reasons aren’t clear
For his statements, I fear,
So how can we judge if he’s right?

If I claim I can fly,
But I don’t tell you why,
Would you think I was somewhat affected?
Would you want certain proof
Say, a leap from a roof,
Before my fine words were accepted.

But said Hugh Orde does not
Provide proof of a plot,
Or the reason for all his suspicions,
But yet, his “good word”
Is accepted as heard,
By virtually all politicians.

Tony’s concurred
With the constable’s word,
And Bertie has echoed his feelings,
And Michael McDowell
Doesn’t need further fuel
To shy from Republican dealings.

Hugh’s views, forsooth
Have been taken as truth,
Policeman and judge and the jury,
And expressions of guilt
Have been backed to the hilt
By political posture and fury.

Perhaps he’s correct,
As so many accept,
And the IRA did do the robbery,
But one person’s view
Is not moral cause to
Indulge in political snobbery.

Leeches

2007-08-11T13:23:00.000-07:00

Monica Leech is accused of using her position as a Minister's friend to win a tender

Bogie, in one famous scene
On the river’s darkest reaches,
Towed the heavy “African Queen”
And got attacked by leeches.

His shouts of terror were combined
With jungle wails and screeches –
A cacophany to blow the mind,
Apart from all those leeches.

They fix themselves onto the skin
In any nooks and niches,
And naturally it’s hard to grin
When bonding with these leeches.

But now, the latest thinking that
The modern doctor teaches,
Claims these notions are old hat,
And we should cherish leeches.

They’re big and black and stick like glue,
But do not fear, for each is
A source of feeling well-to-do-
Those lovely, winsome leeches.

For when your immune system fails,
You must shoere up the breeches,
And medical reform regales
The curing power of leeeches.

They’re beneficial to one’s health,
So modern dogma preaches.
They suck the poisons out by stealth,
Those wondrous, healing leeches.

And Ministers in Government
Deliver glowing speeches
About the holy covenant
That we should form with leeches.

So throw away those old ideas,
The Space Age doc beseeches.
Heed environmental peers
Attach yourselves to leeches.

Kilometres Per Hour

2007-08-11T13:22:00.000-07:00

Road signage changing from miles to kilometres

Was it for this the heroes fell,
Why Ireland’s peace was bartered?
Dragged out from their prison cell
And inhumanely martyred?
Lifetimes spent in trying to usurp a foreign power –
And all for what?
I’m sure ‘twas not
Kilometres per hour.

Clothes are rent and teeth are gnashed
In utter desolation.
What other crisis could have smashed
The Irish population?
The rivers flowing to the sea taste salty now, and sour.
It seems a sin
To travel in
Kilometres per hour.

Oul’ Ireland has a beauty that
Was sculpted through tradition,
And now some faceless bureaucrat
Has damned it to perdition.
A dewdrop of a tear hangs now from every roadside flower.
Thus shies the land
From progress and
Kilometres per hour.

The rocks that lie upon the ground
From Dingle to Stamullen
Are shattered and cannot confound
The pen of Martin Cullen.
Our lovely miles are dead and gone, for progress must devour
Our island bliss,
For what? For this?
Kilometres per hour?

There’s many claim these road signs are
Quite pointless and misleading,
For traffic jams in Dublin bar
The slightest risk of speeding.
Pontius Bertie wipes his hands within his iv’ry tower,
But he well knows
Who did impose
Kilometres per hour.

Our politicians sell the line
That Europe must be followed,
Yet another surefire sign
That bricks have now been swallowed.
Our English neighbours don’t conform, don’t bend the knee or cower,
But Europe spoke
And we invoke
Kilometres per hour.

Oh, lift this plague of metric signs,
This scourge upon our culture.
Picking at our bones defines
The actions of a vulture.
Will ye come, will ye, will ye, will ye come to the bower?
Oul’ Ireland’s gone,
A curse upon
Kilometres per hour.

In Defence of the Toll Hikes

2007-08-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

(January 2005. The National Toll Roads Authority announce that charges are to increase by thirty cent, a “once-off charge to offset the cost of widening the West Link”)

The toll-bridge levies have increased,
And motorists are fuming.
They claim that we are being fleeced,
And rip-off Ireland’s booming.
Surely there is no defence
For upping charges thirty cents?

This sudden hike to cross a bridge
By far outstrips inflation.
One-eighty for the privilege
Of using their toll-station?
And where is found the recompense
For dishing out our thirty cents?

But why the ire at this new charge?
Why label it extortion?
We motorists have, by and large,
Lost all sense of proportion.
Forsooth, it makes a lot of sense
To charge an extra thirty cents.

For we’ve become a frantic breed,
Our lives keep getting quicker,
Tasks are done at breakneck speed,
Performances are slicker.
Stress is making people tense,
And hyper over thirty cents.

But at the toll-booths, nothing moves,
And life slows down completely.
This brief hiatus amply proves
That God still smiles down sweetly.
The welcome stillness is immense
And worth a measly thirty cents.

‘Twixt office and its non-stop phones,
And home, with children screaming,
This tranquil respite soothes our bones,
And gives us time for dreaming.
And yet, we baulk at the expense
Of handing over thirty cents?

An hour to travel half a mile?
Oh, how that prospect pleases!
We face it with a cheery smile,
As traffic quickly freezes.
Sometimes we are not grateful, hence
The lather over thirty cents.

So don’t begrudge the toll-bridge folk
The extra charge they levy.
Compare it to the cost to smoke
Or go out for a bevvy.
Oh, how could we all be so dense
To whinge about this thirty cents?

Hark! The Moral Angels Sing

2007-08-11T13:20:00.000-07:00

Hark! The moral angels sing,
And let their outraged voices ring.
They rent their garments and they seethe
About a farm in county Meath.
Purchased with the nation’s taxes
(See! The world shifts on its axis)
Has the Taoiseach lost his mind?
Hospital and jail combined?
Hark! The happy farmers sing,
And let their joyous voices ring.

See! They’re plotting to destroy
The plans to relocate the ‘Joy.
Or maybe they prefer to pull
The Central Mental Hospital.
Leave them in their ancient buildings,
Shorn of therapeutic gildings.
Better all the wear and tear
Than they relocate out there.
Hark! The opposition sing
And let their outraged voices ring.

If they’re built up side by side,
Subconsciously they’ll be allied.
No matter how they’re both disguised,
Patients will be victimised.
Mental health is an enigma,
Doesn’t need this extra stigma.
The general public, it is true,
Could easily confuse the two.
Hark! The politicians sing
And let their outraged voices ring.

It all seems done and dusted, but
I’ve heard new plans are underfoot.
Leinster House, if I hear right,
Is relocating to this site.
But it’s just exacerbating
All the problems they’re creating.
All the prison inmates claim
It would sully their good name.
Hark! The anguished jailbirds sing
And let their outraged voices ring.

Cold Comfort

2007-08-11T13:19:00.001-07:00

The people are chillin’ in old Enniskillen,
In Newry, the roads are all icy.
As the blizzards sweep down into Ballyclare Town,
The cost of home heating’s gone pricey.

The icebergs at sea have blocked in Donaghdee,
And they’re shivering up in Dromore,
And boy, is it very Vladivostok in Derry,
Where there’s walrus and penguins galore.

As the storms vent their fury on Banbridge and Newry,
They’re skating above on Lough Neagh,
And the water won’t melt up in Magherafelt,
And the cold spell looks likely to stay.

They’re sloshing through slush in Coleraine and Portrush,
Tobogganing in Limavady
But its not only Billy who’s finding it chilly,
It’s also quite freezing for Paddy.

Weather presenters in radio centres
With plausible causes hold forth.
But the obvious reason why Ulster is freezin’
Is the polarisation up North.

At Dalgan

2007-08-11T13:17:00.000-07:00

To leave behind the daily grind,
The stress of modern living,
Escape the strife of urban life,
So harsh and unforgiving.
To stroll along those hedge-lined lanes,
And purify one’s stilted veins,
For peace and true contentment reigns
At Dalgan.

Wild flowers give thanks upon the banks
Of Dalgan’s gurgling river,
The birds sing praise to summer days,
And fragile twiglets quiver.
The air is bathed in nature’s calm,
Enveloped in a soothing balm,
For nobody can come to harm
At Dalgan.

The leafy boughs where sparrows browse
Are parasols for walkers,
While high above with squawks of love,
The rooks are loud and raucous.
Butterflies inhale the light
And frolic madly with delight,
And all the world is put to right
At Dalgan.

But soon will come the tuneless hum
Of monster truck machinery
To cut a swathe, as with a lathe,
Through Dalgan’s priceless greenery.
The march of progress can’t be stilled,
And man’s incessant need to build
Must necessarily be fulfilled
At Dalgan.

The question raised is subtly phrased,
A riddle for the nation.
Should we bequeath fresh air to breathe
Or rapid transportation?
Better roads can’t be defied,
And progress must be satisfied,
But should our solace be denied
At Dalgan?

The retreat at Dalgan is threatened by plans to route the new M3 nearby

A Matter of Priority

2007-08-11T13:15:00.000-07:00

For thirty years, these Ministers accepted their large salaries,
Informing us occasionally that we should watch our calories.
And then they’d hit the campaign trail to ask for a majority,
And robbing pensions from the old was hardly a priority.

Often folk had spent their lives in uninspiring drudgery,
Yet activating for their rights was seen as mere begrudgery.
The mighty wheels of Government evinced superiority,
And therefore they were fleeced, but it was scarcely a priority.

Stealing money from the people who could least afford it
Became a trait that slipped through every Civil Service audit,
How was such a crime allowed by those with seniority?
Ah sure, ‘twas not a crime at all –it wasn’t a priority.

Now and then in thirty years, some people would raise questions
About the scheme’s legality, and offer some suggestions.
“Come back, come back some other time!” the Wizard said to Dorothy.
“In the great big scheme of things, it isn’t a priority.”

And thus the whole thing rumbled on without a resolution.
Successive shrugging Ministers all looked for absolution.
And still it might go on, had not the South West Health Authority
Grabbed the nettle in their hands, and made it a priority.

News announced that the government have been fleecing pensioners for years in the provision of nursing home places

On Britain’s Reluctance to Join the Euro

2007-08-11T12:51:00.000-07:00

The British, oft in days of yore,
Produced a gallant hero,
But bravery’s now out the door,
And Britain’s stock is zero.

From John o’Groats to Gretna Green
From Tyne and Wear to Truro,
These fearless citizens are seen
To cower from the Euro.

From crusty sailors in Penzance
To miners up in Jarrow,
The people will not take a chance,
Their thinking is too narrow.

The sterling sign, so big and tough,
Is proudly writ in biro,
The only thing that’s good enough
To scrawl upon their Giro.

The British pound, the British pence,
To lose them would bring sorrow,
But they’ll soon see it makes more sense
To join with us tomorrow.