‘Twas on a lovely Saturday
In the balmy month of May,
Most unbecoming weather for this story.
The sun with pleasure beamed
And to everyone it seemed
That everything around was hunky dory.
Pairs of turtle doves were calling,
And the basking cats lay sprawling,
And only sullen ducks were being spiteful.
‘Twas a day to celebrate
All that’s good in our estate,
While the weather was so pleasant and delightful.
Then from near the Spar, a shout,
Like a shot came ringing out,
From Marmaduke O’Shaughnessy, God love him,
Who had turned his gristled face
O’er the roofs of Littlepace
And pointed at an object high above him.
Everybody turned to stare
At this strange sight in the air,
Whose shape, I’m told, could well be termed elliptic.
‘Twas white and blue and green,
And upon its flanks was seen
A message indiscernible and cryptic.
It was floating back and forth,
Veering south, then turning north,
Seemingly unsure of its direction.
At the mercy of the breeze,
It seemed to venture near some trees,
Causing a swift rook and crow defection.
In sheer panic, women shrieked,
And some little children squeaked,
While grown men hid behind a wall and cowered,
For the thought that struck folk first
Was “What if this thing should burst?
And who’s to say it isn’t nuclear-powered?”
Then retired Major Gore,
Who had seen service in the war,
Came up the street to get a proper eyeful.
Then he cried with toothless grin,
“Holy smoke! A zeppelin!”
And rushed back home to oil and dust his rifle.
An obscure foreign sect
Who feared the world would soon be wrecked,
Fell down upon their knees and started praying.
Though some stuck out a thumb
And tried to hitch to kingdom come,
Whilst gloating at the ones who would be staying.
Mrs Cynthia O’Toole
Who was driving past the school,
Saw it large within her rear-view mirror,
Put her foot down on the floor,
Till doing ninety-five or more,
Believing that the thing was getting nearer.
The air corps was alerted,
And all scheduled flights diverted,
And they promised there’d be an investigation.
But they’d have to wait a week,
For special clearance, so to speak,
For their pilot was in Cyprus on vacation.
Then Esmerelda Breen
Ran from Hazelbury Green,
And through the fearful multitude came barging,
Crying out, “It isn’t funny –
Here’s my chance to make some money,
But typically, my picture-phone needs charging!”
Some kids from Pheasant’s Run
Galloped up to join the fun,
With catapults and pebbles at the ready.
But the crowd chased them away,
When loads of ammo went astray,
Though they claimed the target wasn’t keeping steady.
Well there was a great to-do,
A most enormous ballyhoo,
With everybody most inclined to panic,
And with the place soon to be blighted,
All communities united,
Irish, Slav, Nigerian, Hispanic.
From Mulhuddart and from Ongar,
The converging crowd got stronger,
Eyes uplifted to the strange attraction.
And the road down to Clonee
Was thronged with people keen to see
The Castaheany UFO in action.
Certain words were loudly uttered,
And the rosary was muttered,
Though many of the crowd just stood unblinkin’,
And many men acceded
That a pint was sorely needed,
If only we had got a pub to drink in.
Then up from Linnetfields,
There strode the studious Seamus Shields,
Who people knew as someone bright and brainy.
With spy-glasses round his neck,
He loudly shouted, “Flipping heck!
It’s an election campaign advert for Jon Rainey.”