The Ballad of John Waters a True Irish Martyr

Oh, Caitlín Ní Uallacháin, your sons have been martyred,

their lives cruelly taken or cynically bartered.

Your tears fill the Foyle, the Boyne and the Barrow

with stories that chill righteous minds to the marrow.

The country’s awash with the cries of your daughters

for Collins and Connolly, Wolfe Tone and Waters.

In the year that we’re feting the struggles of Larkin,

John Waters fell foul of the laws about parkin’.

Our hero was randomly handed a ticket

and forthwith decided it just wasn’t cricket.

And so at the very next magistrate’s session,

he took a brave stance ‘gainst this savage repression.

From the dock, this unflinchable journalist fashioned

a speech from the heart, both inflamed and impassioned.

“I won’t doff the cap to this fiendish knavery,”

he cried, as the multitudes gasped at his bravery.

“I must take a stand on behalf of the weary,

the sat-upon, shat-upon folk of Dun Laoghaire.”

“Then you leave me no option,” the judge spat out viciously.

“We cannot have citizens acting seditiously.

Your words are insidious, base and subliminal

and we have no choice but to brand you a criminal.

Your words are pernicious; you’ve shown no repentance

and now you are facing a long prison sentence.”

And so, John was brought under Garda protection

to a gloomy, voluminous house of correction

and thrown in a cell, there to ponder and languish,

a soul in dark torment, alone and in anguish.

“Oh Father,” he cried, “See where this stand has taken me!

In my hour of need, why hast thou forsaken me?”

A felon on his right hand, a felon on his left,

he descended to Hell, alone and bereft.

But courage and strength may be found when you need ‘em,

as when you are cruelly deprived of your freedom.

And just as his thoughts were enveloped by gloom,

the boulder was suddenly rolled from his tomb.

Weakly, the bars of authority yielded

as our hero emerged into sunlight, eyes shielded,

his spirit unbroken, unquenched and undaunted,

his face deeply lined with the look of the haunted.

Three cent in his pocket, kept safe from the beadle,

he could easily slip through the eye of a needle.

But suddenly, families started appearing,

unfurling their banners and raucously cheering

and they lined all the streets on the south of the city

for the man who had faced down the Parking Committee.

Oh Ireland, bow down to the man who has taught us

to fight for our freedom! God bless you, John Waters.

The sad end of King Richard III

An ignominious end for a King,
more fitting for a fool or court jester.
No devil born deserves that final sting –
to end up being laid to rest in Leicester.

(It has been officially verified that the body found under a Leicester car park is that of Richard III)

The Lismore Tidy Towns Committee

Oh, the river walk by the Owenashad
was a lovely place that one time had
speedwell, toothwort, anemones
and flowers so rare and pretty.
The people came to stroll and dream
beside the gently lapping stream,
till it caught the attention of the Lismore
Tidy Towns Committee.

Now, the LTT is a body that
has improved our urban habitat.
They’ve tackled well the problems
that beset both town and city.
They’ve planted boxes, trees and shrubs,
improved the look of shops and pubs –
oh yes, we’re very grateful to
the Tidy Towns Committee.

But then they decided, off the cuff,
that nature wasn’t tidy enough
and Waterford County Council found
some money in the kitty.
And in the great bulldozers roared
and bushes and wild plants were floored,
courtesy of that well-meaning
Tidy Towns Committee.

Woodrush, garlic, pignut too,
along with the famous Lismore Blue –
all were cleared to make a path
both rubble-strewn and gritty.
Gone are the speedwell, ferns and sedges,
gone the birds that nest in the hedges,
tidied up quite neatly by
the Tidy Towns Committee.

And now I walk in the aftermath,
along this rubbled, soulless path
and passers by inform me that
they feel it’s such a pity
that the lovely walk that we one time had
by the peaceful, lapping Owenashad
has been vandalised completely by
the Tidy Towns Committee.

The real X factor

To those who sweat in pubs and clubs
and grubby half-filled village halls
where recognition never calls,
I clap politely. Stardom snubs
but, in your picking fingers, you
have far more talent than the climbin’
wannabes who dress like Simon
thinks they should. To art be true,
learn well your trade and you will find
a joy that will sustain you till
you die. And you will surely fulfill
the dream that needs no contract signed.
I beg you, don’t throw in the towel –
there’s more to life than Simon Cowell.

Please stop asking me to approve treaties

Please stop asking me to approve treaties –
my head’s in bits and my stomach’s in tatters
and I’ve got a really bad case of the DTs.

Grubby old men, stop offering me sweeties!
I feel like Alice in a room of Mad Hatters
when you keep asking me to approve treaties.

We had a great night over at Cousin Beattie’s
and I really can’t focus on such matters,
suffering badly, as I am, with the DTs.

I need camphor oil and cups of sweet teas,
not all this shyte you’re throwing at us
about whether or not I should approve treaties.

Bleary-eyed, my face resembles E.T.’s
(a comparison, alas, that only flatters
when I’ve a really bad case of the DTs.)

So stop! Heed my earnest entreaties,
all ye Joe Higgins and Alan Shatters.
Please desist asking me to approve treaties
when I’ve a really bad case of the DTs.

Qadhafi

“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

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

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

Song for Brian

(written January 2010)

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

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

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

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

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

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

November 2010

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

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

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

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

Rabbits and juggernauts

(written November 2011)

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

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

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

Something rotten down at Laura Ashley

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every Day

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

Every day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Debt like ours will never go away.

Debt like ours will never go away.

The derailment of the Ireland Express

(written October 2010 for the Baffle Festival, Loughrea)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joan’s chastising,
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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.