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.