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.

The resignation of John O’Donoghue

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.