To the postal assistant in Blanchardstown Post Office

Oh how I wish that I possessed
Your sense of laissez-faire,
That attitude of ‘sod the rest,’
That look of ‘do I care?’

The queue was half a mile long,
The mood was not that great,
A silent, disenchanted throng,
Like cattle at a gate.

Six hatches were not manned at all,
Just three were trying to cope.
The queue was moving at a crawl,
The damned, devoid of hope.

And then we saw ‘Position Closed’
Go up before your face.
‘Toilet break,’ we all supposed.
‘Go swiftly, with God’s grace.’

But no, you reached down to your bag
With most indecent speed,
And, taking out a gossip mag,
You then began to read.

You crunched an apple as you flicked
Right through that magazine
And, using your small finger, picked
Your nose till it was clean.

Meanwhile, evil mutt’rings grew
On our side of the fence
And violent thoughts were hurled at you
With blazing eyes intense.

But no, you carried on as if
You didn’t have a care,
Oblivious to the acrid whiff
Of anarchy in the air.

Every night, my prayers go flying,
Asking, if I may,
That I can come across you, dying,
After some affray.

And I’d produce a magazine
While you lie comatose,
And sit and read it, as I clean
The inside of my nose.
.

A lucky escape

The doctor’s letter fell upon the table.
I couldn’t comprehend the words I read.
Although my situation was quite stable,
I’d only one month left to live, it said.

Oh bother, I swore loudly with some feeling,
I suppose its time I took myself to bed.
And, shrugging, I stared upwards at the ceiling
That hid my deathbed lying overhead.

But then I read again that dreadful letter
And let a whoop that filled my wife with dread.
Suddenly I started feeling better,
As I saw the note was for my son instead.

They dissected my poo on the telly

They dissected my poo on the telly
To gauge the effects of my diet
They said that it seemed rather smelly,
And sure, who am I to deny it?

They inferred my well-structured example
Was unusually bad, one supposes.
Perhaps they expected a sample
That smelled of baked bread or wild roses?

But the size and the shape and the colour
Were praised by that great faecal surgeon
Who said, had it been a shade duller,
It would have looked just like a sturgeon.

‘Twas not for the sheer gross-out factor
That my poo was laid flat and dissected.
‘Twasn’t done by some poorly paid actor,
But a scientist, wise and respected.

‘Twas done in the great name of science
To advance education and learning
Though my meek and obedient compliance
Amused those who are not so discerning.

As the star of that telifis station,
I laid bare my incredible talents
And my fee for my participation
Has greatly increased my bank balance.

My poo though attracted much merriment
In the neighbourhood and in the media
Who thought that this serious experiment
Showed telly had got one step seedier.

Yes, I’m proud of that famous dissection
Of my poo with sharp knife and the spatula.
It’s not true there exists a connection
Between that and the fact I’m a bachelor.

Around girls, I just start to perspire
And my legs turn to blackcurrant jelly,
When I utter my chat-up line, “Hiya!
I’m the man with the poo on the telly.”

New car

There’s a new make of car on the market,
Like a Fiesta but shorter and sweeter.
It’s easy to drive and to park it
And it does fifteen miles to the litre.

On Top Gear they praised it most highly
And Jeremy Clarkson was drooling
‘Bout handling and ‘oomph,’ he said drily
And the time on the road ‘tween refuelling.

But between twelve and four, there’s no power,
According to Ford’s senior tester.
So you must keep an eye on the hour
When driving the new Ford Siesta.

Joan of Arc

As the flames lit the dark
All around Joan of Arc,
She saw a large man start to mutter.
She strained to make out
What he whispered about –
Was he catholic priest or a nutter?

“Are you talking ‘bout me?”
Came her gut-wrenching plea,
For he looked like a man of great learning.
“Whatever you’re saying,
Say it loud, please, I’m praying,
But hurry up, for my ears are burning.”

My Porterstown queen

My Porterstown queen
Had a face so serene
She could launch a flotilla of ships.
She had curves where she should
(Which were awfully good)
And a pair of fine child-bearing hips.
I looked into her eyes
Open wide with surprise
As she lay on the silk-sheeted bed.
But I knew, her and me,
It was never to be,
For sadly, Elvira was dead.

There’s a very dapper wizard

There’s a very dapper wizard
Who lives down in Chapelizod
And is known throughout the valley and beyond.
His hair, in rain or blizzard,
Is immaculately scissored,
Though he leaves his nasal grooming to his wand.

Curse

May your charms and your guile
Serve you well for a while
But then fail like the blossoms of May.
May your hamstring grow taut
May your nose grow a wart,
May your teeth slowly start to decay.

May mistakes stay unlearnt,
May your dinner taste burnt
May your tyres attract nails on the street.
May you often, by chance,
Tuck your skirt in your pants,
May your flatulence not be discreet.

May your midriff expand,
May your legs stay untanned,
May your facial hair grow strong and thick.
May your perfume cause rashes,
May you lose your eyelashes,
May one glass of red wine make you sick.

Oh there’s nothing to fear –
I’m not bitter, my dear.
Sure we parted upon best of terms.
I just wish you good luck
When you find yourself stuck
With a terrible dose of the worms.

The poor little squid

The poor little squid woke up suddenly
While all was still dark in the pool.
“I do not feel well,” he said woodenly.
“I don’t think I’ll make it to school.”

His dad, who was always suspicious,
Regarded his offspring in bed.
He always suspected sick fishes
Were experts at swinging the lead.

“You don’t look too bad,” he said dolefully.
“Perhaps you just had a bad dream?”
His son stared back up at him woefully,
His look of distress quite extreme.

“Just look at his skin,” said his mother.
“Those spots have come up overnight.
I think that we should get another
Opinion on our young son’s plight.”

“The doctor’s a waste of good money,”
Said his father with growing distaste.
“Just smear him with fish oil and honey –
Your sense of alarm is misplaced.

“Six pound to come out for a visit?
How does he expect us to pay?
It’s not worth the money now, is it?
Those measles will soon fade away.”

“Shut up!” she replied, in a lather.
“Just look at the poor little kid!
By God, you’re a miserly father
Begrudging a measly six squid.”

Given his cards

He worked in an old paper factory,
Like his father, a grizzled old Pole, did.
But things turned out unsatisfactory
When the old paper factory folded.