The State Pathologist

I am the State Pathologist, O’Dwyer is my name.
I am the expert in my field, despite what others claim.
Some say that I’m incompetent or too long in the tooth,
But the reason I’m suspended is I just can’t tell the truth.

I tell such bare-faced whoppers, sprinkled with exaggeration.
A farmer’s wife who choked to death, I called it strangulation.
The farmer was arrested and they sentenced him to life.
He still protests he’s innocent of murdering his wife.

A charred and blackened body in a house burnt to the ground-
I looked the Sergeant in the eye and told him she’d been drowned.
A man found with his throat cut and his feet and hands all tied-
My professional opinion was – a tragic suicide.

The more I practised to deceive, the more my web got tangled.
A nasty airplane accident – I said they’d all been strangled.
“A heart attack,” I ventured, of a man shot in the head.
I wrote down “Death by Hanging” of a man found dead in bed.

I think the final straw came with the body in the wood.
Its head was found a mile away, bathed in a pool of blood.
I gave the time of death around a quarter after five,
Then, kneeling o’er the torso, I exclaimed, “She’s still alive!”

I know that I’m not senile for I’m well within my prime.
So why do I tell all these fibs and waste the Gardai’s time?
It isn’t done maliciously, from badness or from spite.
I try to tell the truth, but then the words don’t turn out right.

The Minister for Justice was quite clearly unimpressed.
He raved and ranted for an hour, as though he were possessed.
He slammed the files shut and yelled “Explain yourself, O’Dwyer!”
“That’s easy, sir,” I countered, “I’m a pathological liar.”

The Eel Poem

When a dirty great eel
Makes you shudder and squeal
That’s a moray.

The Ballad of Artie Brown

Lettuce bow our heads awhile,
And pray for Artie Brown.
He’d bean a gardener till asphyx-
Iation struck him down.

He was a strong, yet peas-ful man,
Gave thanks for what he got.
Often seen down by the stream,
He used to fi-shallot.

He’d often spinach-eery yarn
To folk who’d stop and speak,
And, e’er the Good Samaritan,
He fixed the church roof leek.

We berry him with tearful hearts
And reddened eyes and noses,
And, yes, it would beetroot to say,
He’ll fertilise the roses.

He mint to do more with his thyme,
He didn’t drink or smoke.
A curse upon that herring bone
That made poor Artie choke!

Satisfaction

Adonis, bronzed and self-assured,
Stood high upon the diving board.
Feet together, supple-jointed,
Arms outstretched with fingers pointed,
Slicked-back hair and square-cut chin,
Chest stuck out and waist tucked in.

From the children’s paddling-pool,
I felt a most ungainly fool,
Rubber-ringed and lily-white
And overdosed on cellulite.
If only I could be like him!
If only I could learn to swim!

Adonis leapt, without a fault,
And did a backward somersault.
Like an arrow he descended
All his arms and legs extended.
Then, to show life can be sweet,
He missed the pool by several feet.

Sarkasm

The boat was plunging up and down,
The sea was pretty choppy.
I never thought we’d get there
In this bockety jalopy.

Everyone on board was sick,
‘Twas pitiful to see.
They did not heed my sound advice
To stand beneath a tree.

Eventually we tethered to
The harbour wall in Sark,
Mightily relieved as we
Queued up to disembark.

“Is this the way?” I asked a man,
A-standing on the quay.
“Not at all,” he countered,
“That there road goes out to sea.”

I stopped another local. “’Scuse me,
Where’s the village, please?”
“No village here,” the man replied,
“We all live in the trees.”

“When does this boat leave again?”
I asked one of the crew.
“In six years time,” he answered me,
And my suspicions grew.

“I’ve had enough of this,” said I,
“I’m tired of this malarkey.
Its plain to see that everyone
Revels in being sarky.”

Sad Story

Grigori moved from Krakow
To the lights of Ballybay.
He wed a girl from Clones
And they had a son called Jay.

Jay then moved to Sydney,
When a sheila stole his heart,
And now Grigori and his son
Are simply Poles apart.

Paddy Duff

We’ve had enough of Paddy Duff
Its time he was migrating.
He’s got the sack,
So have him back
Before he thinks of mating.

Poor Louise insisted,”Please,
My room can’t be untidy.
It must be Neil
Or else that seal.
I fixed it all on Friday!”

Now Neil said he was in bed,
And so we couldn’t blame him
He claimed the seal
Was trying real-
-Ly hard to try and frame him.

But Paddy never answered ever,
Defying us with silence.
The cheeky pup
Would not own up,
Although we threatened violence.

So, no more guff, bold Paddy Duff!
You had your chance to parley.
Your fate is sealed
With Rachel Field
Who might feed you to Charlie.

Paddy Duff, I think, was some cuddly toy belonging to Rachel, that got left in our house one time, but I may be wrong!!

Ode to the Dublin Civic Offices on Wood Quay

With windows lit, and painted white,
They are a most impressive sight.
Tall, to help the people find them,
Blocking that oul’ church behind them.
And though they’re not to all folks’ liking,
I hear no grouse from any Viking.
Built upon a steep incline,
Their architectural design
Attracts the Spanish and the Dutch,
Who seem to like them very much.
The noble folk who work inside
Are filled with fierce, civic pride
And wave with consequential ease
To us poor peasants on the quays.
And we give them a darkened stare
And wish that we could work in there.

Normal Behaviour

I licked the backside of a clown
With eagerness and hope,
Then very firmly pressed it down
Upon the envelope.

Murder

In a sordid basement flat
A small cornflake was lying
In a stagnant pool of milk,
His mother softly crying.

On the other side of town
They found a krispie squashed.
Forensic experts all agreed
That she’d been badly coshed.

They found a single breakfast biscuit
Hanging from the bridges,
Either badly decomposed
Or nibbled at by midges.

A bomb inside a kitchen press
Exploded prematurely,
Killing twenty sugar puffs,
While several more are poorly.

The investigating officer,
One Chief Inspector Miller
Is certain that he’s dealing with
A dangerous cereal killer.

Mr. Wippy

Mr. Wippy crashed his van
Just outside “The Glimmerman”
And, as it overturned, it threw
It’s slushy contents out on view.
Broken, fractured orange splits
And lemon crushes smashed to bits.
Funny Feet adorned the ground
And Ninety- Nines were strewn around.

A schoolboy started off the plunder
With a Wibbly Wobbly Wonder
Whilst his best mate cadged a triple
Portion of the raspberry ripple.
Mrs. Gandhi from Soweto
Dived upon a stray Cornetto.
Cowboys from a local fair
Waved their Magnums in the air.
Grannies, grandads stooped to pick
The ice-pops up and have a lick.
Soon everyone had got a fill o’
Strawberry, chocolate and vanilla.

The Gards arrived on motor scooters
To ward off all the ice-cream looters.
In order to protect the load
They placed some cones along the road.

In Praise of Goldfish

Round and round and round and round,
Purposeless, without a sound,
Eyes that never seem to blink,
Heads that never stop to think,
Free from any special features,
God! Aren’t goldfish boring creatures?

Chief Inspector Mulligan

Chief Inspector Mulligan
Was flying off to Crete,
Swapping Dublin drizzle for
Some continental heat.

He’d packed his suitcase carefully,
His helmet and his truncheon ,
And sandwiches [in case the flight
Did not provide a luncheon.]

His boxer shorts and swimming-trunks
Complete with Garda crest ,
And eau-de-Bridewell aftershave –
The girls would be impressed.

His size-twelve boots were polished bright,
His efforts had been ceaseless ,
His shiny-buttoned uniform
Was folded flat and creaseless.

And now he strained and heaved and puffed
To get the suitcase flattened
Down enough to ensure that
The hatches could be battened.

Eventually the catches clicked
And in their locks reposed
“Aha!” cried he, quite breathlessly
“At last, the case is closed.”

Ambiguous Endings

Butch and Sundance robbed a bank
In some small peasant town,
But then they fell into a trap
And nearly got shot down.
They dodged and swerved and dived behind
A peasant’s portico,
Surrounded by a hundred men
[Though this they didn’t know.]
They decided they would make a break
With all the loot they’d plundered,
But, as they fell into the sun,
A hundred gunshots thundered.

But then the credits start to roll.
You never see them shot.
You never know if they escaped
Those hundred men or not.
Perhaps those hundred soldiers
Were all in a parlous state,
Hungover from the night before,
Unable to shoot straight.

Louise and Thelma reached the end,
They’d pulled out all the stops.
Ahead, the great Grand Canyon.
Behind them, all the cops.
Louise then put the car in gear
And headed for the drop.
Behind, the good detective
Tried in vain to make them stop.
But, as they fly across the void
To meet their Judgement Day,
The picture freezes in mid-frame
And music starts to play.

What if a sudden gust of wind
Had blown them right across?
Or if they’d landed safely on
Some very bouncy moss?
Directors out in Hollywood
Should finish films with care.
They always seem to leave the viewer
Hanging in mid air.

These Have I Loved

The Damned, the Buzzcocks, the Ramones,
Iggy Pop, the Undertones,
New York Dolls and X-Ray Spex,
The Jam and Generation X,
Eater, Wire and Souxsie Sue,
Subway Sect and Adverts too
Penetration and the Boys
Rezillos and The Stinky Toys
Television, Talking Heads,
Debbie Harry ripped to shreds,
Boomtown Rats and Richard Hell,
Slaughter and the Dogs as well,
The Radiators, SLF,
Tenpole Tudor till I’m deaf
Mick, Paul, Topper and Joe Strummer
Knocked the spots off Donna Summer
David Jansen, Johnny Thunder,
Wiped the smile off Stevie Wonder,
Steve and Paul and Johnny Rotten,
Sid as well, won’t be forgotten.
Though nearly all of them are gone,
The energy still lingers on.

The Wrong Type

The author flopped back in his chair,
His fingers sore and peeling.
He ran his fingers through his hair
And gazed up at the ceiling.
And just before warm sleep o’ertook
This worn out writer of a book,
He thought he heard a click-clack-cluck
Tap-tapping in his brain.

Little r let out a sigh,
“I’d thought he’d never finish,
Though in the last half-hour, I
Could feel his strength diminish.”
“My back is broke,” said little s,
“I’ll have to be repaired, I guess.
My inky curves are just a mess,
My spring has sprung a sprain.”

Said comma to apostrophe,
“How are you feeling brother?
The letters mind themselves, but we
Must watch out for each other.”
“I’m fine” replied apostrophe,
“He hardly ever uses me,
And, when he does, it’s plain to see
His grammar is inane.”

“What’s the story?” called out x
To Daisy Wheel above her.
“I think it’s only sex, sex, sex-
A poor man and his lover.”
“Go on! Go on!” cried exclamation.
“He’s using lots of punctuation,
There must be lots of fornication;
My key is racked with pain!”

Said sixty-six to ninety-nine,
“Hey, sister, how’s it hanging?”
The other gave a little whine,
“I’m tired of all his banging.
This novel will be one hard slog,
He’s always using dialogue,
They’re even yapping when they snog,
Why can’t they just refrain?”

The author woke at half-past two,
And all the keys stopped moaning.
He slowly read the last page through,
Then held his temples, groaning.
He smote the desk with emphasis.
“I can’t believe I wrote all this!
I’d better give this book a miss,
I’m under too much strain.”

The Night of Hallowe'en

Across the moon, black clouds come sweeping,
Tears from heaven gently weeping.
While all mortal folk are sleeping,
Evil stalks the night unseen.
Overhead come witches flying
God’s own natural law defying
Throwing back their heads and crying,
“ ‘Tis the night of Hallowe’en!”

In the graveyard, hands come stealing
Through the hard-packed limestone, feeling,
Groping upwards, then revealing
Anguished skulls with eyes obscene.
Skeletons with bones disjointed
Climb from graves now long- anointed,
Like eerie, bony fingers pointed
At the night of Hallowe’en.

Ghastly ghouls with monstrous faces
Howl across deserted places,
As grim Satan’s rule displaces
What was once a natural scene.
Bats come flapping, swooping, screeching,
Diving downwards, over-reaching,
Like tortured, broken men beseeching,
In the night of Hallowe’en.

Up on high, the scene surveying
With his black cape gently swaying,
Stands the Devil, small smile playing
Round his lips of deathly green.
He summons up his frightful powers
And down on earth his evil showers,
And every soul before him cowers
Upon the night of Hallowe’en.

The Effects of Minor Illnesses upon Certain Indigenous Small Mammals

Winifred, a Wexford weasel
Caught a single German measle.
But, as it was only very measly
She recovered from it easily.

Vincent Vole was feeling off,
Because he’d caught the whooping cough.
And, when he hunted every morning,
He gave the tadpoles loads of warning.

Sammy Stoat came down with mumps,
His back broke out in great big lumps.
“Oh God!” he said “I’m now a camel,
Instead of some cute woodland mammal.”

Seamus Seal from Inisheer
Once got a dose of diarrhoea
He said, “I can’t go fishing here,
Because the water isn’t clear.”

Oliver, the Omagh otter,
Felt his forehead getting hotter.
So, fearing it was chicken-pox,
He rushed back home to change his socks.

On Sandra Walsh leaving Dunnes

A broken leg just needs a cast,
A septic ear will mend quite fast,
There’s medication for neuralgia,
But there’s no cure for nostalgia….

And so we say goodbye to Wally.
It makes us all so melancholy.
She was a source of inspiration
By her total lack of dedication.

She’d sit for hours upon a box,
(Sometimes shirts and sometimes socks)
Thinking, musing, dreaming, dozing,
Until she heard the lift-door closing.

Then, up she’d spring, a brand new Wally,
And throw some jumpers in a trolley

The rest of this, written around 1995? appears to be missing!!

Old Shepherds' Tales

Red sky at night,
Shepherd’s delight
Red sky in morning,
Shepherd’s take warning.
Red sky before Coronation Street starts,
Shepherd farts.

Miracle of nature

The tulips dance in sweet rapport,
Swaying lightly in the breeze.
A miracle of nature, for
I thought I’d sown a row of peas.

Angie

Angie lives in at number three
With a man who drives a Ford Capri.
They walk together in the park
And don’t come home till after dark.

I often see her pass our gate
In dark brown coat with head held straight.
She doesn’t look to left or right,
But carries on till out of sight.

Her pale blue eyes and dogged expression
Always leave a marked impression
So elegant, so calm, so chic,
Her perfect bones and body sleek.

I often wish she’d show some sign
That one day, maybe, she’d be mine.
I’d tried to meet her, quite by chance,
But never earned a second glance.

Other men don’t seem to find
It hard to talk to womankind.
I know I needn’t be so lonely,
If I could have dear Angie, only……

Btu then today, through sheer persistence,
Ange acknowledged my existence!
I saw her walking home from town
And deliberately slowed right down.

As she approached, I gave a smile
My heart a-pounding all the while.
And, as my mind began to falter,
Her blank expression seemed to alter.

She beckoned me across the road,
And showed me where she’d left her load.
Surveying it, all brown and soggy,
I whispered “What a clever doggie!”

Acne

Acne, acne, burning bright
On my countenance tonight.
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy wretched symmetry?

A Family Historian’s Lament

I’ve been doing my family history for nearly thirty years,
Diligently tracing my illustrious forebears.
From Peterhead to Peterborough, from Pendle to Penzance,
My merry band of ancestors has led me quite a dance.

There’s cooks from Kent and guards from Gwent and chimney-sweeps from Chester.
There’s even one daft fisherman lived all his life in Leicester.
There’s no-one rich nor famous, no, not even well–to-do,
Though a second cousin twice removed once played in goal for Crewe.

I’ve haunted record offices from Gillingham to Jarrow,
The little grey cells of my mind would humble Hercule Poirot.
I’ve deciphered bad handwriting that would shame a three-year-old,
And brought the black sheep of the family back into the fold.

My bride of just three minutes I left standing in the church,
As I nipped out to the graveyard for a spot of quick research.
Eventually I found an uncle sixty years deceased-
It was far more satisfying than a silly wedding feast.

After three whole weeks of wedded bliss, my wife became despondent.
She named the Public Record Office as the co-respondent.
I didn’t even notice when she packed her bags and went-
I was looking for great granddad Dixon’s will in Stoke on Trent.

But now my thirty-year obsession’s lying in the bin.
Last Tuesday week, I heard some news that made me jack it in.
For my darling aged mother, who is not long for this earth,
Casually informed me they’d adopted me at birth!

Trevor

Trevor sits back in his chair
Beneath his very boring hair
And pontificates about the game
In a voice that always stays the same.
And, as that nasal monotone
Begins to drone and drone and drone,
I feel my eyelids start to drop
And my senses start to shut up shop.

Trevor sits back in his chair
Beneath his very boring hair
And smiles at me from my T.V,
Explaining all that’s plain to see.
I know that Keane deserved to go,
I don’t need Trev to tell me so.
I know the Leed’s back four was flat,
I don’t need Trev to tell me that.

I remember Trev in his West Ham days,
He was useless in so many ways
He looked just like a pregnant yak
When running up to help attack.
He didn’t get stuck in at all,
Shut his eyes to head the ball.
His shooting skills were only crass.
His saving grace-that he could pass.

Trevor sits back in his chair
Beneath his very boring hair
And tells us all about the goal
As I reach for the remote control.
I always have to give a miss
To his expert analysis.
I can’t believe I’d had my fill
Of brilliant, witty Jimmy Hill.

The Nightingale Parts 1 and 2

[I]

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.
But I was in Dublin
So I didn’t care.

[2]

I may have been drunk but, my darling I swear,
A nightingale barked in Sangley Square.

The Great Jahore of Katmandu

The Great Jahore of Katmandu
Eats little else but vindaloo.
He dusts his thimbles on the shelf,
Plays games of chess against himself.
He counts his ears and speaks Chinese
To his beloved chimpanzees.

The Great Jahore likes nothing better
Than wearing his new Aran sweater.
(It goes well with his lederhose
And yellow socks with crimson toes)
He really is a style guru,
The Great Jahore of Katmandu.

He only issues travel permits
To ardent fans of Herman’s Hermits,
He cuts his toenails every day
To keep the evil gods away.
He puts the clippings on his hat
Or on the matted welcome mat.

The Great Jahore of Katmandu
Has placed a tax on wearing blue,
He made his favourite Pekinese
The Minister for Sniffing Cheese.
He paints his teeth with white emulsion
For toothpaste causes him revulsion.

How he bemoans the lack of snow
When ski-ing down Mount Angelo!
He only likes pineapples canned
And ordered all the fresh ones banned.
He papers all his ceilings too,
The Great Jahore of Katmandu.

Some people say that he is mad,
But, then, you should have seen his dad.

The Fallen Nun

The nun came tumbling down the stairs,
After tripping o’er the cat.
No angel heard her frantic prayers,
What do you make out of that?

Steam Days

When I was a lad, just a slip of a child,
Way back in the evergreen Poulton-le-Fylde,
I often spent many a tireless day
Down at the rec. where the kids used to play.
I spent many hours on the old wooden fence,
Watching the signal with rapture intense.
And, when that old metal rectangle would rise,
I’d know that a train would materialise.
Out of sight, round the bend with the hawthorns cut back,
I’d hear the chuff-chuffing resound down the track,
And the billowing black plumes of smoke in the sky
Would tell me a steam train would shortly pass by.

Here it comes, here it comes, with it’s pistons a-pumping,
And I, with my rye-grass in mouth up and jumping.
The driver with peaked cap stares out through his hole,
While the dirty black fireman shovels up coal.
The train has a name and a number as well
And the smoky black plumage a wonderful smell.
The Master rolls by with his tender attending,
A ritual walk down the aisle never ending.
And then come the carriages, people and faces
Going to Preston or other far places.
I’d jump on the fence and I’d wave my arms high
And sometimes I’d get a salute in reply.
How many carriages trundling along?
I’d count them all out like reciting a song.
And then comes the Guards Van, a short stumpy tail,
The guard may be standing and holding the rail.
And as I stare after this stately procession
The black musty smell leaves a life-long impression.
I went back there once on a day bright and mild,
And sat on the fence like I had as a child.
And down round the bend with the hawthorns cut back
A new Intercity approached down the track
It whooshed by so fast I could not see the name
And I knew in my heart that it wasn’t the same.
The people still travel from station to station,
No longer a journey, but just transportation.
I lifted an arm, waved mechanically,
But the ashen-stone faces just stared back at me.
And as the pale bullet sped by sleek and fast,
I knew that the dreams of my childhood had past.

Riddle

Why did Gilbert O’ Sullivan swear,
The moment he met you,
Oh Clare?

On Strike Again

Sitting on this hard, cold floor,
My mind is blank, my arse is sore.
Playing patience till I’m bored,
Smoking fags I can’t afford.
Shoppers look with knowing eyes,
Some come up and sympathise.
Kindly words sincerely stated
Are very much appreciated.
Five days stubble on my chin
Clearly shows the state I’m in.
I’ve read my books, my eyes are bleary,
The non-stop muzak makes me weary.
Perhaps I ought to take up Russian?
I wish to God I’d brought a cushion.
Smoke another cigarette
To pass the time and help forget,
Trying hard to tell myself
There’s people who don’t have their health-
Child-abuse and gun attacks,
People paying income-tax
Men and women on the dole
Who can’t put sugar in their bowl.
So I’m not too bad in my ennui
But I wish I’d win the Lottery.
I’d fly away to the Bahamas
Lie in the sun and eat bananas
Crack a coconut, drink the milk
While listening to Acker Bilk…
But then I open up my eyes
And very swiftly realise
I’d get more fun from watching cricket,
For I’m part of the Dunnes Stores picket.

Lame Excuse

As I burst through the toilet door,
My bladder aching from the cold,
A yellow notice said “Wet Floor,”
And so I did as I was told.

Inspiration

Blank sheet of paper,
What shall I write?
Will it be beautiful?
Will it be shite?

Full sheet of paper.
Thank God Almighty!
Well, was it beautiful?
No, it was shitey.

Immobile Phone

I bought a mobile phone today,
I think that it’s a dud.
I brought it home excitedly,
Feeling pretty good

I placed it on the table and
I hung it on the wall.
But, though I watched it constantly,
It didn’t move at all.

Billy’s Questions

“Why can’t we have wings,” said Billy to God,
“The freedom to soar through the air?
It takes oh, so long when you’re walking along,
It takes ages to get anywhere.”

“ Why can’t we have screws,” said Billy to God,
“To open our chests when we please?
If we could look inside, it would be a great stride
In the fight against pain and disease.”

“Why can’t we have fur,” said Billy to God,
“It would help to protect us from cold.
Just think of the cost of the body heat lost
For the poor and the sick and the old.”

“Just think of the time,” said Billy to God,
“That we humans spend sleeping and dozing.
Think what we could do if we did not have to
Waste hours inert and reposing.”

“Why must we have teeth,” said Billy to God,
“That hurt us from cradle to grave?
Were they made of steel, how much better we’d feel
Just think of the toothaches we’d save.”

“Why don’t we have minds,” said Billy to God,
“To remember the things that we learn?
Not to have to go look up some paper or book
Would really do us a good turn.”

At length came a moan like a roaring cyclone,
And God gave his answer to Billy:-
“I’ve heard all your questions and clever suggestions.
Now, push off, and don’t be so silly.”

Astral Microscope

There they live in mild hysteria,
Petri dish full of bacteria.
Single cells and colonies
Spreading sickness and disease,
Defying all their natural forces,
Devouring all their world’s resources,
Like a cancer slowly creeping
Through the body while it’s sleeping.
Amoeba-like they reproduce,
Replace the old cells of no use.
Obviously they’re far too small
To have a living soul at all.

But as they spread their poison slowly
Over everything that’s holy,
We keep the sample locked away
At the centre of the Milky Way.
Some say they ought to be destroyed,
Vaporised throughout the void.
But the government has shown defiance,
Preserved them in the name of science.
Seemingly it has no fear
They might escape their atmosphere
I wonder, would it give them hope
To know they’re under a microscope?

A Spot of Literary Criticism

T.S.Eliot’s poetry
Is vitally important
To show poems what they ought to be,
And also what they oughtn’t.

“Macavity the Railway Cat”-
His finest poem ever.
I wish that I could write like that,
But then, I’m not that clever.

The rhythm beats prodigiously,
It’s full of perfect rhyming,
Each line scans religiously-
The secret’s in the timing.

“The Four Quartets” is for the birds,
It’s full of double-dutch.
He doesn’t bother rhyming words,
At least, not very much.

It doesn’t go “da-dum-di-dum,”
Nor even “dum-da-di,”
So he can shove it up his bum
You call that poetry?

Truck

Trrrruck!” he shouted.
“Trrrruck!” he stated.
“Trrrruck!” he loudly
Articulated.

The Regular

A night when ancient war-gods vented
All their anger in the weather,
Bracken shook like ghouls demented,
Earth and heaven fused together.

The gale had never once abated,
Never once had it looked back,
And lightning shafts illuminated
The Scottish moorlands clothed in black.

The driving rain in fury poured
Like waves of vengeful Ostermen,
And mighty Thor and Odin roared
In savage echoes round the glen.

Jim McPherson stumbled gamely
Through the dank and sodden heather,
Cold and soaking, cursing lamely
At the unrelenting weather.

Down the hillside, slowly sinking,
Ancient wisdom, bowed, forlorn,
Granite boulders stared unblinking,
Eyes through grassy carpet worn.

Until, at last, his sturdy boot
Felt tarmacadam ‘neath his feet,
And, pausing to arrange his suit,
He marched off quickly down the street.

Down the long dark road he pressed,
Skirting round Ben Tanzie’s girth,
Like an ant around the breast
Of ever-watchful Mother Earth.

Soon he came upon a white house
The object of his lonely trek,
Shining brightly like a lighthouse,
Close beside a glassy beck.

He pushed his way in through the door
And paused upon the woven mat,
Water pouring on the floor
A-leaping from his brimming hat.

He spied the owner by the fire,
In his shirtsleeves pristine white.
“How’re ye, Bull?” he did enquire,
“Business awful bad tonight?”

Billy said, “There’s no-one here,
There won’t be much a-washin’ delph.
And, but I knew that you’d appear,
I’d mebbe stayed upstairs meself.”

McPherson squelched up to the bar,
And sat down in his normal spot.
“I willna ha’ ma usual jar,
I’m sore in need o’ sumtin’ hot.”

“Mebbe ye’ll ha’ a cup o’ tay?”
Said Billy, rising with a smile.
He placed a teapot on a tray,
A-grinning broadly all the while.

“’Tis not for tay me mouth’s bin achin’!”
Came McPherson’s sharp retort.
“Sumtin’ strong teh stop me shakin’,
Sumtin’ like a glass o’ port.”

“Port is it?” came back the banter,
“Wha’ sort o’ port does sir require?
Shall I fetch ma best decanter
An’ serve it t’ye by the fire?”

McPherson smiled, “Now don’ be sully,
Jes’ gi’e’s a glass t’mek me warm.
An’ I dinna care wha’ sort now, Bully,
‘Tis any port, sure, in a storm.”

The Obstructionist

My name is Michael Millington,
Professor of Obstruction,
I’d better point out what that means,
By way of introduction.

I’ll set the scene – its Christmas Eve,
And town is black with shoppers,
Tobacco sellers dodge and duck,
Evading nosy coppers.

Carol singers block the street
In festive celebration,
You barge your way into the crowd
In quiet desperation.

You have to get some soap for Mam,
A shirt for Uncle Billy,
And don’t forget the sheep-dip for
Your mad old Auntie Millie.

You’re weaving here, you’re swerving there,
Avoiding a collision,
When, coming out of HMV,
You make the wrong decision.

For you step left when he steps right –
You’re in the same position!
Like Sumo wrestlers squaring up
Before a competition.

So you step right and he steps left –
You can’t make the correction,
As if you’re looking in a mirror
At your own reflection.

After two or three attempts,
You’re starting to get harassed.
And so he stops and waves you on,
Bright-blushing and embarrassed.

You giggle lightly, walk on by,
And all your cares are banished.
You turn around to watch him go,
But magically, he’s vanished.

‘Twas me, the great obstructionist,
From mundane matters plucked,
To put a smile upon the face
Of those whom I obstruct.

It is a service I provide,
My standards are improving,
Just fax me in a photograph
Of whom you want stopped moving.

I tour around the country
Giving lectures on obstruction,
And anyone attending can
Avail of a reduction.

The population’s going up,
Despite the world recession,
In busy streets, there’ll be a need
For men of my profession.

The overheads are very small,
It only takes a minute.
The only disadvantage is
There’s not much money in it.

So, next time that your path is blocked,
Remember it’s my job,
Just reach your hand into your purse,
And slip me a few bob.

The Etang de Sandun

The Etang de Sandun lives perchance
In Southern Brittany in France.
He loves to sing and loves to dance
While only wearing underpants.

Slightly north of St. Nazaire,
In earshot of La Grande Briere,
You’ll find him singing in the square,
Or waltzing in his underwear.

He’s often found on sunny days.,
Sporting just a pair of stays,
And dancing to the latest craze,
While warbling “La Marseillaise.”

The Chicken and the Egg

Let me introduce myself, I’m Jimmy Gregg of Gort.
They call me a small farmer for I’m only five foot nought.
My missus, Rita, and myself, we own a hundred sheep,
Ten cows, some chickens and a sow, enough to earn our keep.
She’s the brains and I’m the brawn, we never have a worry,
She does all the paperwork, while I’m knee-deep in slurry.
We haven’t any children, for I’m much too tired at night,
Besides, the wife won’t let me, for I always smell quite badly.

A week ago, I met a man who had a wooden leg.
“Which came first?” he questioned me, “the chicken or the egg?”
I thought awhile, I thought some more, in fact I thought all day,
And, by the time I made to speak, the sod had limped away.
I rushed back home to ask the wife, but Rita only laughed,
She told me to take off my boots and not to be so daft.
And, as my puzzled countenance caused her great merriment,
The idea suddenly came to me – the great experiment.

Next morning, I milked all the cows and counted all the sheep,
Then took the brush into my hand and gave the yard a sweep.
I got a tub of whitewash and marked out a running track –
It started at the barn and ended at the chicken shack.
The local press arrived at ten, a pimply-looking youth,
Accompanied by a camera-man, a bit long in the tooth.
I bade them both to park themselves upon a bale of hay,
Then gave a small dissertion on this most historic day.

“Socrates and Aristotle grappled with the question,
But all these sages came up with was chronic indigestion.
Newton didn’t know, and he was one of our great thinkers,
And even Albert Einstein bluffed he couldn’t give a tinker’s.
Victor Hugo, Sigmund Freud both pondered it in vain,
Franz Kafka shrugged his shoulders twice and then became insane.
But now all our philosophies will have to be reversed,
For I will prove conclusively which of the two came first.”

Upon the starting-line, I placed an egg quite newly laid.
You’ve no idea of the effect that this production made.
The youth appeared to have been smitten by a thunderbolt,
He nudged the ageing camera-man, who woke up with a jolt.
I then retrieved a chicken, which I’d tethered up with twine,
And solemnly I placed it down upon the starting line.
I could hear the two men guessing as to what would happen next,
And could see from their expressions they were mightily perplexed.

I got the shotgun from the barn and shouted, “On your marks!”
Then fired a blast into the air and downed a pair of larks.
The chicken gave a startled squawk, surprised by the commotion,
But in her greatest rival, there was ne’er a sign of motion.
The feathered one ran merrily towards the chicken shack,
But the egg seemed strongly disinclined to follow down the track.
And, as the race approached its end, my pulse began to quicken,
And, when the winning-tape was breached, I shouted, “It’s the chicken!”

The pimply youth and camera man jumped quickly to their feet,
Talking animatedly of deadlines they’d to meet.
And, as they climbed into their car, the old one tapped his head,
Obviously impressed by everything I’d done and said.
So, now you know the answer, all of ye who search for knowledge,
Whether travelling ‘round the world, or smoking hash in college,
If you’re ever posed the question of the chicken and the egg,
You tell them it’s the chicken, and who told you – Jimmy Gregg.

Sound Advice

If you should be plotting
To go off globe-trotting,
There’s two things you shouldn’t forget –
The land is as hard
As your mother’s back yard,
While the sea is exceedingly wet.

So,

If your mind has been muddled
By drink, or befuddled
By thoughts of the emperor’s daughter,
Don’t forget you can stand
On a nice piece of land
But the sea’s always full up with water.

Smart Answer

You can’t have your cake and eat it,
Ben.”
The pompous teacher snorted.
“So what’s the point in having it,
Then?”
The stubborn boy retorted.

Plonker

He didn’t care for postmen,
He thought they should be banned.
He used to write his letters and
Deliver them by hand.

He only writes to locals now,
For he could not afford
The soaring cost of airfare when
He had to write abroad.

Occupational Therapy [ How Do I Love Thee? ]

If I were a steeplejack, I would walk tall,
Were I a town crier, I’d give you a call,
If I were a gardener, our love would so bloom,
If I were a builder, I’d give you more room,
If I were a soldier, I’d capture your heart,
If I were a baker, I’d make you a tart,
If I were a sailor, I’d give you a wave,
If I were a sexton, I’d act awful grave,
If I were a fisherman, I’d drop you a line,
If I worked on the pit face, then I’d make you mine,
Were I a speech therapist, what could I say?
If I were a barber, there’d be hell toupee,
If I were a chef, I would relish your smile,
If I had been shipwrecked, I’d walk down the isle,
If I were a carpenter, I’d try a new tack,
Were I a masseur, I’d exclaim, “Good, your back.”If I were an astronaut, I’d give you some space,
If I were a priest, I would worship your face,
Were I a gamekeeper, I’d hold you so deer,
Were I a mechanic, I’d help change your gear,
If I bungi-jumped, I would fall for you madly,
If I were a servant, I’d slave for you gladly,
Were I a greengrocer, would they lettuce play?
Were I a birdwatcher, I’d ring you each day,
If I were a dancer, about you I’d rave,
If I were a goalie, I’d work hard and save,
If I were a doctor, would I love you in vein?
If I read the weather, then long may you rain,
Were I a sign-writer, I’d write you a letter,
If I were a poet, I’d rhyme this verse better.

Mr. Proverb

He never ran before he walked, he looked before he leapt,
And if he ever spilt some milk, he never ever wept.

He always took good care to look a gift horse in the eye,
And always checked the water long before the well ran dry.

He left the stable door ajar, on seeing the horse departed,
And knew he had to sink or swim and finish what he’d started.

“Pride doth come before a fall,” you’d often hear him muttering,
He carefully eschewed fine words, if parsnips needed buttering.

He lead his horse to water but he couldn’t make him drink,
And always used two pence of tar, in case the ship might sink.

He made a point to eat an apple each and every day.
[He got appendicitis but the doctor kept away.]

When he was making broth, he never used too many cooks,
And covers couldn’t sway his mind if he was judging books.

He tried hard not to spare the rod, in case the child was spoiled,
And stoically resisted watching pots until they’d boiled.

He never had a faint heart, so he won a lady fair,
And saved nine stitches sewing up his worn out underwear.

When he purchased eggs, he bought a basket and a trolley,
And never tried to teach new tricks to his old faithful collie.

He minded all the pennies and so left the pounds alone,
And gathered loads of moss because he was no rolling stone.

He never counted chickens if the shells were still intact –
Some say he was a character,
But I think he was cracked.

Motorist’s Nightmare

Other drivers fit to burn-
Can anything be worse
When, halfway through a three point turn,
You cannot find reverse?

Mad Cow

Buttercup, the Guernsey cow,
Sauntered slowly down the lane.
Deep in thought, she wondered how
She’d ever find her way to Spain.

A hen approached from up ahead,
Before she’d gone a half a mile.
“Is this the way to Spain?” she said.
The hen just gave a nervous smile.

Further on, she met a horse,
“I’m heading off for Spain!” she cried,
“Can you say if I’m on course?”
But the nag passed on the other side.

She hollered, “Where’s the road to Spain?”
To a boxer, chained and muzzled.
“Perhaps I ought to take the train?”
But the dog just raised an eyebrow, puzzled.

“Oh, sheep!” she called, “Can you help please
And kindly tell me as to whether
I’m on course for the Pyrennees?”
But the sheep just trundled off together.

The sun sank lower in the sky
And Buttercup began to shiver.
A lonely tear escaped her eye,
As she stood sadly by a river.

“Oh, what am I to do?” sobbed she,
“I’ve had no help from anywhere.
In Spain they’re free from BSE
And they don’t cull us chickens there.”

Limericks

A young cockatoo they called Garret,
Once swallowed a whole piece of carrot.
He sipped on some Coke,
And then started to choke,
And exclaimed, “I’m as sick as a parrot.”

There once was a worried old woman,
Who ended her sentences hummin’,
The doctor said, “Jaysus!
That’s highly contagious!
You’d better not hmmm hmm hmm hmmm hmm.”

A young vegan from Polynesia
Once suffered a dose of amnesia,
But he came to grief
When he ate some roast beef
And then died of a terrible seizure.

Rudolph the Reindeer was moody,
So he went for a swim in the nudie,
As he clambered out,
He heard Santa shout,
“God help us! I’m certain that’s Rudie.”

There once was a caring Croatian,
Who wrote books about conservation,
A critic said, “Hey!
They’re marvellous, but they
Accelerate deforestation.”

There was a young poet from Gort,
Who left all his limericks short.
He never could end
All the lines that he penned.

If Only…..

If only I’d got to the shop one hour later,
If only I’d used the correct escalator,
If only I’d spotted that huge alligator,
If only, if only, if only.

If only old Adolf had been a Hispanic,
Or sailed to America on the Titanic,
Or worked all his life as a motor mechanic,
If only, if only, if only.

If only our marking had been watertight,
If only our Packie had punched it that night,
If only Schillachi had been on the right,
If only, if only, if only.

If only my Dad had worked harder in life,
And taken a millionairess for a wife,
I wouldn’t have all of this trouble and strife,
If only, if only, if only.

If only – two words so pathetically small
Can make a sane man bang his head off a wall,
But, if you look closely, they mean bugger all,
If only, if only, if only.

Gospel

Jesus spluttered into Dublin on a motorbike,
The people lined the Navan Road, saying, “Jaysus, what’s he like?”

We rode with Him that perfect day, performing escort duty,
Like flies that hover all around a rose of wondrous beauty.

At the GPO he gave a speech so clear and graphic,
Until the Gardai moved him on for blocking up the traffic.

Throughout the week, he drove around the confines of the city,
Blessing those who came to Him, exuding love and pity.

In the Park, ten thousand people watched without a sound,
As Jesus grasped the Papal Cross and tore it from the ground.

We hand-plucked band of followers did hang on every word,
Marvelling at things we saw, and everything we heard.

A travelling man lay dying in his roadside caravan,
Jesus kissed his forehead and he woke, a healthy man.

He spoke with love and friendliness to everyone He’d meet,
Until, that is, he went to Mass up in Whitefriars Street.

He pulled the ranks of Mass cards down, thus causing their disbandment,
While yelling fiercely, “Don’t ye know the second great Commandment?”

Eyes ablaze, He threw a punch at the Virgin Mary’s head-
It shattered on the cold, stone floor – the congregation fled.

St. Matthew too came tumbling down, St. Francis and St. Paul,
The plaster statue of Himself, He smashed against the wall.

The Gards rushed in, but Jesus knelt in silent adoration,
They waited till He’d finished and then brought Him to the station.

For five long hours, He answered all their idiotic questions,
And smiled at their frustration and their often-lewd suggestions.

Outside, some people knelt and prayed, and called Him the Redeemer,
While others howled out for His blood and called Him a blasphemer.

The networks tried to analyse His mesmeric effect,
Some claimed He was a charlatan, the leader of a sect.

Inspector Brady then hit on the easiest solution,
And sent Him up to Dundrum to the mental institution.

There they gave Him one small shot, and brought Him to His bed,
But, when they checked Him in the night, sweet Jesus lay there dead.

The pathologist came scurrying, red-faced and out of breath,
But, though he tried, he could not find the reason for His death.

They brought Him to the mortuary, and locked him in a drawer,
Then read a brief press statement to a hundred hacks or more.

On Sunday, when they let us in, we were horrified to find
The body missing from the drawer, the blankets left behind.

They questioned each of us, of course, until the early morning,
But in the end, they freed us with a not-so-friendly warning.

The papers all conjectured on the plot that we were hatching,
Accusing us of trickery, deceit and body-snatching.

They nailed His memory to the cross, suspecting grand collusion,
While we laid low, as best we could, amid the mass confusion.

We all met up in Mulligan’s and, in an upstairs room,
We railed against injustice in an atmosphere of gloom.

Then suddenly, a ball appeared, a huge and fiery sun,
It settled on our heads in turn, baptised us one by one.

And when it left, our spirits rose and our resolve was greater,
We’d spread the Word throughout the world, we’d witnessed the Creator.

I got a phone-call yesterday from Kate in Skibbereen,
She said, “Hey, Pete, I bet you’ll never guess who I’ve just seen…”

Flip and Flop

Flip and Flop, the bunny rabbits,
Scrambled through the hedge.
Playfully, they nipped each other
At the field’s edge.

Flip was grey with specks of white,
While Flop was golden brown.
They played together all day long
Until the sun went down.

They frollicked gaily up the mounds
And tumbled down each furrow.
They hadn’t left each other’s side
Since they were in the burrow.

Flip tried to chase a butterfly
That flickered all around him,
And Flop pawed wildly at the flies
That always did surround him.

This happy picture cannot last,
For both of them got shot.
Now Flip is in the freezer
And poor Flop is in the pot.

Children’s Rhyme

Pinch and a punch
For the first of the month.
Bang on the ear
For the first of the year.
Dig in the eye
For the first of July.
Kick up the bottom,
First day of Autumn.
Gouge and dismember,
The first of November.

Achilles Heel

I swotted hard, got my degree,
Reading anthropology.
Students still ask for my thesis
On the origin of species.
I’ve taken part in excavations
In a myriad of nations.
Homo erectus, Neanderthal –
I’ve written books about them all.

Yet, though my brain-cells are unreal,
I have a large Achilles heel.
My life, I feel, would be complete
If I could fold a fitted sheet.
I work myself into a state
Trying to get the corners straight.
I cannot get them flat at all,
They always end up in a ball.

Cotton, linen or percale,
I always know I’m going to fail.
Single sheets are bad, but double
Cause me unrelenting trouble.
And, though I tuck the elastic in,
Fate decrees I’ll never win.
The greatest story never told
Is how a fitted sheet should fold.

A Suggestion

Why do they hold the eclipse of the moon
When all decent folk are in bed?
It ought to be held in the mid-afternoon
Or just after dinner instead.

A Matter of Principal

I was on the board of my old school, when the Principal dropped dead,
And so we had to advertise to get another Head.
Our school is quite notorious, so very few applied,
And when we held the interviews, just three Heads sat outside.

The first of our three applicants was miserable and sour,
Perhaps we caught him in a mood or in his weakest hour,
At any rate, he railed against the system as a whole,
And argued that strong discipline should be the final goal.

The second person that we met just didn’t seem to care.
She didn’t like the coffee-set, she didn’t like my hair.
She told us a head teacher’s life was not a bowl of cherries,
And that she’d nearly had enough of her old school in Skerries.

The third and final candidate appeared a thoughtful man,
His name was Daniel Kelly and I soon became a fan,
He outlined his achievements with a modesty so rare,
It really was no contest so we told him then and there.

We summoned in the national press to tell of our decision,
It wasn’t hard for them to guess ‘twas Dan, the man with vision.
The next day someone opened up a copy of the Sun,
And there in big bold letters –
“Two Heads are Bitter – Dan Won!”

Your Roving Reporter

“I’m in a town called Dublin in the Northern Hemisphere,
Observing the religion of the people living here.
Their secular beliefs appear uncivilised and tribal,
I think that I can say that without any fear of libel.

Once a week, their God descends from heaven, without warning,
His grotesque machinations give the people ample warning.
And, when they hear him roaring, people keep their kids indoors,
Doubtless fearing that they might get snapped up in His jaws.

In order to appease him, every house must pay a price,
And offer up an animal in gruesome sacrifice,
The animal is kept out in the yard or in the shed,
And scraps of food and household waste are all that it is fed.

It’s commonly referred to as the Jumbo Refuse Sack.
The poor dumb creature has a skin that’s smooth and shiny black,
Its molecular metabolism’s similar to plastic,
But the speed it grows within a week is really quite fantastic.

And, when the Sack is bloated so it can’t move from the spot,
Its ears are taken savagely and tied into a knot,
And then its left outside the door, or maybe at the gate,
So full and fat it can’t escape its grim, predestined fate.

And then the God comes snarling with His faithful old and thin men,
Expressionless executioners, colloquially called Bin Men,
The God’s cruel mouth is in its arse, He opens it up wide,
And the poor defenceless animals are flung with force inside.

What thoughts must flicker through the Sack’s pathetic, tiny mind,
Awaiting the mad deity-with-terrible-behind?
How must it feel to watch his fellow creatures lightly thrown
Into the gaping, crunching mouth, abandoned and alone?

These Dubliners should play no part upon their planet’s stage!
To think there’s still such barbarism in this day and age.
Perhaps its something in the genes, passed on to them at birth –
This is R-J-6-11, Astral TV, Planet Earth.”

Wishful Thinking

The sky is painted perfect blue,
The cliffs are rusty brown.
Bold Wile E. Coyote waits
To run Roadrunner down.
The ACME jet-skis are turned on,
The catapult is primed,
And every single detail has
Been tested out and timed.
The seeds are scattered on the ground
[“Especially for Birds.”]
And very soon we’ll cease to hear
Those most annoying words.
“Beep! Beep!” Here comes the flying cloud,
A-speeding down the track.
Coyote deftly lights the fuse
And takes a last look back.
“Beep! Beep!” Roadrunner flashes by,
Coyote’s in the rear.
He’s gaining on him, yard by yard,
The end is surely near!
The cocky bird espies the seed
And stops to take a feed,
Our hero’s fast approaching, God!
He’s very close indeed!
Wile whips out a sharpened axe
And severs R R’s head,
Not even time for one “Beep! Beep!”
Before the bastard’s dead.
In every house around the world,
The children dance with glee.
No more to hear that damned “Beep! Beep!”
Roadrunner’s ceased to be.

Truism

I passed a stationary shop today,
It didn’t move, I’m glad to say.

The Wino

Old and dirty and stinking of wine,
He shuffled along the bus queue line.
His blackened face was scarred and worn,
His ragged trousers badly torn.
Not a single one was willing
To give the poor old sod a shilling.
Ne’er a kindly word was spoken,
Stony silence dragged unbroken.
Uncomfortable at being harassed,
They turned their eyes away, embarrassed.
His vacant eyes did not express
The slightest trace of bitterness.
So when he reached me in the queue,
I knew just what I ought to do.
I cleared my throat and gave a cough,
And muttered to him, “No, sod off!”

The Story of Mou-Mou

Mou-Mou was a Hottentot, in Africa he dwelt,
He was the greatest hunter in the whole wide world, he felt.
His hearing powers were acute, as was his sense of smell,
Enabling him to take his pick of warthog and gazelle.

Once he crossed the prairie lands, to hunt the great white rhino,
He brought it home triumphantly and dumped it on the lino.
His wife surveyed it thoughtfully, and then she ventured, “He’s a
Little big to eat just now, I’ll put him in the freezer.”

Mou-Mou woke one morning in his compact wooden hut,
And, jumping lightly out of bed, he left behind his foot.
This was quite unnerving and he gave a little cough,
The force of which did cause his little finger to fall off.

To say that he was troubled was to put it rather mildly,
He hopped around in great distress, gesticulating wildly,
And, pulling back the bedclothes, he was horrified to find
Two kneecaps and an earhole and a piece of his behind.

His wife was fast asleep when the manure hit the fan,
But, waking up, she cried, “We’d better see the medicine man!”
The medicine man examined Mou-Mou, eyes awash with sorrow,
And said, “I’ll run some simple tests, so please come back tomorrow.”

Mou-Mou dutifully returned, just as the doctor said,
His nipples gone, his bulbous nostrils hanging by a thread.
His faithful wife was there as well to give her man support,
And also so that she could hear the medicine man’s report.

The doctor said, “Now, my old friend, please do not go to pieces,
I’ve looked into your urine and I’ve analysed your faeces.
I’m afraid that you’ve got leprosy, it’s in its early stages,
And, Mrs. Mou-Mou, please beware, it’s desperately contagious.”

When they got home, his loving wife got out the Mister Sheen,
And sprayed and polished everywhere that Mou-Mou’d ever been.
She threw the bedclothes out the back and threw them on the fire,
And then the contents of the wardrobe helped the flames fly higher.

She threw out all the cutlery, the dishes and the jugs,
Electric kettle, rhino horn and souvenir mugs.
Mou-Mou sat dejected in the middle of the floor,
As everything he’d ever owned went hurtling out the door.

Finally, he stood up, as she emptied out the room-
His stainless steel cooking pots, a family heirloom,
He said, “Just bleach them thoroughly, that should be quite sufficient.
They’re priceless in their value and remarkably efficient.”

“Efficient, pah!” his wife exclaimed, “They’re probably infected.”
She would have said a whole lot more but Mou-Mou interjected:
“If those pots go, then so do I, I don’t need to remind you!”
“Okay, my love,” the answer came, “And shut the door behind you!”

But then, dear friend, a happy end, for Mou-Mou did recover,
And took his pots along when he did move in with his lover.
So if you’re out in Africa and visit Hottentots,
Remember you can never make a leper change his pots.

The Snake’s Legs

After Adam and Eve had gone,
God turned to the snake to say,
“You’ll crawl on your belly from this day on,
I’m taking your legs away.”

I’ve often been troubled by this idea,
While praying or singing hymns,
This pre-leg status is quite unclear-
What did a snake have for limbs?

Two at the front and two at the back?
Were they rigid or could they bend?
Hundreds of small ones, all flimsy and black?
Or did it have one at each end?

What was a snake like, the question begs,
Ere God donned His surgeon’s mask?
It’s hard to imagine a snake with legs –
Is there anyone I could ask?

The Owl and the Pussycat [updated]

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat.
They took some hash and plenty of cash,
Then the Owl slit the Pussycat’s throat.
The Owl pushed the body over the side,
And sang to a small guitar,
“Oh, former Pussy, oh Pussy’s that’s dead,
What a lifeless ex-Pussy you are,
you are,
you are,
What a lifeless ex-Pussy you are.

He used his syringe when he felt a twinge,
And he had an amazing dream,
Where marzipan flies had saucer-shaped eyes,
And supported a football team.
He sailed away for a year and a day
To the land where the ganja grows,
And there, in a wood, a Piggy-wig stood
With some coke on the end of his nose,
his nose,
his nose,
With some coke on the end of his nose.

“Hey, man, how’s tricks? Will you get me a fix?”
Said the laid-back Piggy, I will.
As he rolled a fat joint, he did lazily point
To the Turkey who lived on the hill.
They tried some smack and Colombian crack,
Which they sniffed off a runcible spoon,
And, hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They tripped by the light of the moon,
the moon,
the moon,
They tripped by the light of the moon.

The Novice Fisherman

He sat alone upon the bank, his fishing rod in hand.
Why he hadn’t caught a fish, he couldn’t understand.
He’d been fishing there all morning and he hadn’t caught a bite,
So he unwrapped his sandwiches and eased his appetite.
He’d bunched the maggots on his hook with optimistic air,
He’d even cleaned his tackle, but that’s neither here nor there.
Eventually a barrister called Nigel came along.
An expert fisherman himself, he spotted what was wrong.
Standing on the pavement, he looked up at him and said,
“Why don’t you go and sit upon the river bank instead?”

The Mighty King of Phutaan

The mighty King of Phutaan bakes
The most delicious fairy cakes.
He gets his sugar, maize and flour
And whips them up in half an hour.
And then, to make them more enticing,
Adds a layer of chocolate icing.

Whenever passing royalty
Drop in for some confectionery,
He’ll grab his apron from the hook,
And open up his recipe book,
And start to roll and sieve and mix,
And other culinary tricks.

And, after roughly half an hour,
He’ll reappear, awash with flour.
Then solemnly he will display
A dozen cakes on silver tray.
Expectantly, he’ll watch them take
A chocolate-covered fairy cake.

And woe betide to those who pass
Upon the royal coup-de-grace.
Refusal, even kindly meant
Provokes a nasty incident.
So, Kings and Princes, please don’t quibble.
You’re better off to have a nibble.

The mighty King of Phutaan bakes
The most delicious fairy cakes.

The Insect Man

Flies in the bathroom and ants on the stairs,
Big daddylonglegs all over the chairs,
Spiders abseiling from lampshade to door,
Red-spotted earwigs inhabit the floor.

His home is a haven for myriad kinds
Of minuscule creatures with minuscule minds.
He tiptoes around, out of fear he might tread
On some poor unfortunate centipede’s head.

He cares for them deeply and knows all their names,
And challenges termites to cute insect games.
He once took a bronchial gnat to the vet,
An event that the latter will scarcely forget.

He says they’re God’s creatures, in spite of their size,
A point that most normal folk don’t realise.
And keeping large animals isn’t the wisest,
And cat and dog owners are just being sizist.

The last thing you’d say of his home is it’s clean,
His new vacuum cleaner has never been seen.
The dust mites play merrily over the shelves,
Splashing around and enjoying themselves.

His poor next door neighbour went round to complain,
When hordes of grey beetles came up through the drain.
He said that his family was living in fear,
But he got sent away with a flea in his ear.

The Great Escape

The council were putting in new phones
In the middle of our town.
They were digging up some paving stones
To put their cables down.
They’d just gone round an old gnarled tree,
When they heard a voice call out with glee,
“Hurray! I’ve got my liberty!
I’m free! I’m free! I’m free!”

“Observa-tree, Conserva-tree,
I’ve been living in Purga-tree.
Thirty years of misery,
Now I’m free, you won’t catch me.”

There came a booming, creaking sound,
A magnified drum-roll.
The tree’s roots heaved out of the ground,
And hopped out of the hole.
The workmen watched amazedly,
As it shook its twigs excitedly,
And in a high voice cried, “Yippee!
I’m free! I’m free! I’m free!”

“Poe-tree, Bandi-tree,
Freedom should be Manda-tree.
Thirty years of misery,
Now I’m free, you won’t catch me.”

The tree went shuffling down the street,
Accompanied by a terrier.
The tree exclaimed, “Revenge is sweet!”
And kicked it up the derriere.
“Dogs belong in the cemetery,
I’m not a canine lavatory,
Now you’ve barked up this wrong tree,
I’m free! I’m free! I’m free!”

“Symma-tree, Geome-tree,
Add some Trigonome-tree,
Thirty years of misery,
Now I’m free, you won’t catch me.”

He took to the dual carriageway
Which caused a great commotion.
Motorists were heard to say,
“Oh, a tree in motion.”
He overtook a JCB,
And then a stolen Ford Capri,
Then yelled out unashamedly,
“I’m free! I’m free! I’m free!”

“Accusa-tree, Liga-tree,
Clean air should be Obliga-tree,
Thirty years of misery,
Now I’m free, you won’t catch me.”

The Gards set out in hot pursuit,
Patrol cars by the dozens,
And so the tree put down the boot
To see his country cousins.
And in a copse in Offaly
He vanished for eternity,
No more to suffer bronchially,
He’s free, he’s free, he’s free.

“Carpen-tree, Idola-tree,
I’m no longer in Soli-tree,
Thirty years of misery,
Now I’m free, you won’t catch me.”

The First Telephone

Alexander Graham Bell
Invented the first phone.
It didn’t really work too well
‘Cos it was all alone.

It sat there mute, with ne’er a cheep,
Just inside the hall.
Alexander counted sheep
While waiting for a call.

Alexander Graham Bell
Consulted his big brother,
Who told him, that to make it sell,
He’d have to make another.

The Class of 79

At our class reunion,
We all swapped anecdotes,
And talked about how we’ve all fared
[I wrote down detailed notes.]

Sue is a solicitor,
She works alongside Will.
When their clients have to pay,
They always send out Bill.

Jack is selling motor parts,
While Sean became a barber,
Sandy is a lifeguard on
The beach beside the harbour.

Jean’s a trouser presser,
While Frank is a T.D.
P.J. does the night shift while
Old Don’s in UCD.

Annette goes out on trawlers
For a week, or maybe more.
Sometimes she runs into Cliff
When she comes back to shore.

Gayle works for the BBC,
[She’s reading out the weather],
While Heather, Rose and Lily
Run a garden shop together.

Bridget works in Egypt,
Where she came across her Niall,
Mike is a comedian
[He always made us smile.]

Ita does reporting for
The Egon Ronay Guide,
And people walk all over Matt,
No matter how he tried.

Poor old Ruth did choke to death,
While scoffing down her lunch.
We laughed a lot when we heard that –
We are a ruthless bunch.

Olive’s in the oil trade,
While Luke examines files,
Wanda roams around the world-
She sees a lot of Myles.

Carol sings occasionally,
While Lisa hires out cars,
Pat still herds his dairy cows,
And Lena’s found in bars.

Pete works long hours in the bog,
While Neil became a priest,
Mona is a critic now,
But sadly Di’s deceased.

Breda has eleven kids,
Flo’s on the water board,
While Faith and Joy and Charity
Are working for the Lord.

Bet works in a bookie shop,
While Marge works in the dairy,
Bob’s a ballet dancer [well,
He always was a fairy.]

Rob and Nick are both in jail,
Though Christian’s a preacher,
Stella’s an astronomer,
And Mark became a teacher.

I didn’t tell them what I did,
In case it made them sick.
I merely smiled when someone asked,
“Well, how’s it going, Dick?”

Stoned

I was walking home from town one night a little worse for wear,
A little rain was falling but I didn’t really care.
I was walking down the white lines in the middle of the street,
Wishing I’d the money to buy something nice to eat.

I was howling at the moon about the town I loved so well,
As, all around me, dogs were captivated by my spell.
When, from the shadow of a hedge appeared a callow youth,
Who looked to me a bit intimidating, tell the truth.

There were earrings in his eyebrows, there were earrings in his cheek,
So many in his upper lip, I doubted he could speak.
His hair was shaved down either side, and, tattooed on his hand,
Was a picture of the lead guitarist from the Glitter Band.

“You got any cigarettes?” he gave a husky croak,
I told him I was sorry but I didn’t even smoke.
“Cigarettes are bad for you,” he added with a curse,
“But having none at all, old son, might turn out even worse.”

From deep within his pocket, he drew out a nasty blade.
I’d sobered up considerably and now was quite afraid.
He took a step towards me and I backed away in fear,
Perfectly aware there was no other person near.

Suddenly a whooshing sound came whistling through the sky
And then there came a crash and I suspected I might die
And, when the smoke had cleared a bit, and I surveyed the scene,
I only saw a crater where the callow youth had been.

I stared down at the hole and then I stared up at the night,
Marvelling at the timing of that blessed meteorite,
And then I shrugged my shoulders and continued on my way,
Happy I was still alive to see another day.

Speech Therapy

I went to the sp-sp-speech therapist,
When my st-st-st-stammer got worse.
She asked loads of qu-qu-qu-questions,
To which I’m a-ver-ver-ver-verse.
I had to f-fill out some forms-
She said that she found it exciting
That though I st-stammered while speaking,
I di-didn’t do it when writing.
She asked if I’d always st-stammered.
I looked at her, head ob-oblique.
“N-n-n-no,” I said, deadpan.
“Just since I st-started to speak.”

Saved by the Dodo

The animals were worried, they were shivering with the cold,
As they all tumultuously assembled in the hold.
The makeshift candles threw an eerie shadow in the dark,
While giant waves did toss and turn the flimsy, fragile Ark.
The chimpanzees and gibbons were arranging all the seating,
The ocelots were trying hard to stop the sheep from bleating.
The mice and rats were frantically avoiding paw and hoof,
And all the birds precariously were perched up on the roof.
The lion lay upon a crate, surveying the confusion,
“Could we have a bit of hush?” he called with great effusion.
The general clamour died away, the sheep gave up their bleating.
The lion cleared his throat again and then addressed the meeting.
“Twenty days and twenty nights, it hasn’t once stopped raining.
I’ve listened to you wittering and endlessly complaining.
You’re frightened that you’ll never more set foot on terra firma.”
From somewhere in the darkness came a weak assenting murmur.
“Should we trust this Noah?” asked the lion, with a glare,
“When all he’s done has brought us into darkness and despair.
There’s two of every kind of us, each lizard, beast and fowl…”
“There’s sixty of the rabbits!” called out ever-watchful Owl.
The lion let the tittering pervade across the floor,
Then, tossing back his fiery mane, he held up his right paw.
“There’s two of every kind of us,” he carefully repeated,
“And only eight poor human beings,” he cunningly completed.
Silence fell upon the crowd, the parakeets stopped preening,
As everybody present tried to grasp the lion’s meaning.
Not a squawk or twittering was heard among the birds,
Who knit their brows in puzzlement at these rebellious words.
At length the crafty vixen broke my claustrophobic silence,
“Am I correct in thinking that you’re advocating violence?”
The lion gazed around the room and not a creature stirred,
“I think you know exactly what I’m getting at,” he purred.
“Ever since the world began, these humans have been masters,
Responsible for all the ecological disasters.
He hunts us with barbarity, and not alone for food,
But also for amusement, which is bestial and crude.
The food chain has slipped from the cog, and all because of Man.
It’s been this way the very day that humankind began.
The time is sorely out of joint, if anyone needs proof,
Just climb the stairs onto the deck and sit upon the roof.
There’s water, water everywhere, too much for us to measure.
Could there be a surer, clearer sign of God’s displeasure?
The only real way for Nature’s Law to be restored,
Is if we throw the eight remaining humans overboard!”
The animals were mesmerised, and even Tiger blinked
At the thought that they should wilfully make humankind extinct.
The ostrich thrust his head down through a knothole in the wood
But then withdrew it quickly, lest he perished in the flood.
“But Noah is a gentle man,” the nervous donkey frowned,
“If he had not have brought us in, then surely we’d have drowned.”
“I agree,” the panda called, “This man has saved our lives.
Without him, we’d be feeding sharks, along with our dear wives.”
“Point taken,” said the lion with grace, “Old Noah’s not too bad,
And Shem and Ham and Japheth seem to take after their dad.
But think upon the future now, and all of our descendants.
Can any of us guarantee our children’s independence?
For Mankind is a fickle being, he acts in desperation.
He’ll swing from good to bad within a single generation.
This is the opportunity to safeguard our survival!
It’s for our children’s sakes that we must kill our greatest rival!”
And so, into the wee small hours, continued the debate,
Which might have had the consequence of sealing mankind’s fate.
The animals all spoke in turn, for each one had a view
On what, on balance, was the proper thing for them to do.
The lion had a valid point, the tiger did concede,
And, by and large, the majority of animals agreed.
But, as the morning light appeared, the dodo took the chair,
And faced the mutineers with a simple, thoughtful air.
“I see your instincts faltering, I see your thirst for blood.
I see you’re going to kill this man who saved you from the flood.
I see you’re out for vengeance and I won’t stand in your way,
But, ‘ere you do the dirty deed, just hear what I’ve to say.
The lion’s right, I can’t deny that humans treat us rotten.
Their evil acts of savagery can never be forgotten.
They’ve brutalised our fathers in the not-too-distant past,
And, under their cruel sovereignty, there’s few of us can last.
But if we do this dreadful act, what do we stand to gain?
Our innocence will vanish and we’ll bear the mark of Cain.
If mankind drowns, then rest assured that things won’t be the same,
For evermore our guilty hearts will harden with the shame.
For we will be no better than these humans we despise,
And when we see each other, we’ll see murder in our eyes.
The strong will rule in mankind’s place, the weak will disappear,
And all the creatures of the world will live their lives in fear.
And yes, if we let humans live, we may expect the worst.
Some species might well be destroyed, and mine might be the first.
Those who follow after us might well have cause to grieve,
But we will die with dignity, which Man can ne’er achieve.”
And as the dodo mournfully stepped down onto the floor,
The animals all rose as one and gave a mighty roar.
The noise was such it caused young Shem to glance into the hold,
“Those poor dumb beasts,” he sadly sighed and shivered with the cold.

Immobile phone 2

i bought a mbl ph 2day
i tink dat it’s a dud
i tuk it home xitedly
feeln pretty gud.

i plcd it on d table &
i hung it on d wall
but tho I watchtit constntly
It never moved at all.

Cast a Cold Eye

The local rec, where we all played, lies desolate and bare,
Thistles, gorse and concrete blocks lie scattered everywhere,
The Eye and Ear Hospital has bought the land, we hear.
It will be really handy to have such a building near.
They’ve told us that the work will start on Wednesday afternoon,
And we’re informed it’s going to be a site for sore eyes soon.

Blowing in the Wind

What would you call trying to cool your chips
While the storm is uprooting the trees?
And what would you call getting breathalysed
In the midst of a very stiff breeze?
What would you call inflating balloons
In the teeth of a hurricane?
And how’d you describe someone shaping glass
While watching the whirling weather vane?

The answer my friend is “Blowing in the wind,”
The answer is “Blowing in the wind.”

Anti-Vegetarianism

The veggies will soon wrest control,
An ecological putz,
United in the one desire
To rid the world of nuts.

Not only nuts, but artichokes
And timid runner beans,
Cannibalistic genocide,
The greens are eating greens.

No-one speaks up for the plants,
They suffer it in silence,
Cultivated just to feed
Vegetarian violence.

In years to come, the situation
Only can get scarier.
I bet that half of them have never
Been to Vegetaria.

Alas!

Swift of limb and fair of face,
Poised and winsome, full of grace,
Confident and always witty,
Perfect-boned and awful pretty.
In tune with everything I said,
Gymnastically adroit in bed,
Kind to animals and trees –
Alas! Siobhan was none of these.

The Mona Lisa – a Critical Appreciation

The ugly old bint, although well feted,
Looks as though she’s constipated.

The First Busker

Nero fiddled while Rome burned.
I wonder just how much he earned.

The Bungling Mongol

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a pleasuredome erect,
But there were no electrics, so the dodgem cars were fecked.
The green baize snooker tables were all built upon a slant,
And so he had to change his name to poor oul’ Kubla Khan’t.

Sweet Maeve Price

Sweet Maeve Price was very nice,
She didn’t have a single vice.
She didn’t drink, she didn’t smoke,
She never told a dirty joke.
In wintertime she fed the birds
So lovingly with kindly words.
To down-and-outs, she was kind-hearted,
In church, she hardly ever farted.
Ne’er a one for dirty tricks,
She never mentioned politics.
She always was in bed by ten
[With teddy, not with gentlemen.]
She’d smile at people in the street
With gleaming teeth so white and neat,
And patted children on the head.
“They’re all adorable,” she said.

Which is why, when poor Maeve died,
Nobody mourned at her graveside.

Street Trader 2020

“Electricity! Electricity!
Get your lovely ‘Lectricity!
A pound a bag,
Two pound for three!
Guaranteed by the E.S.B.
Two hundred and forty
Volts D.C.!
Recommended by the EEC!
As sure as me name’s Felicity,
‘Tis the very best
‘Lectricity!”

The End of the Creedon Show’s Nearing

Oh brothers and sisters across this fair land,
From the valleys of Antrim on down to Inch strand,
The moment of darkness is now close at hand
With the afternoon sun disappearing.
There’s no point in touching that radio band
For the end of the Creedon Show’s nearing.

They told us the news and we shivered with shock-
We’d always tune in around half three o’clock.
The ship would pull smoothly away from the dock,
With Margaret there gallantly steering,
Avoiding the reef and the deep submerged rock.
Now the end of the Creedon Show’s nearing.

It whitened our hair like a bolt from the blue,
And grown men declared that it couldn’t be true
That they undertook such an extensive review
Of the programme we’d all been revering.
Soon only enjoyed by a fortunate few
Now the end of the Creedon Show’s nearing.

A change for the better, or so they believe,
Though thousands of listeners are left here to grieve.
The wrong heads have rolled in this radio heave
If everything’s true that we’re hearing.
It just takes one phone call to earn a reprieve
For the end of the Creedon Show’s nearing.

It gave us a fillip, it gave us a lift,
We went with the flow and we flowed with the drift
Yes, we always tuned in for the afternoon shift
For the humour and great balladeering.
And now we are seriously, grievously miffed
That the end of the Creedon Show’s nearing.

The off-the-wall humour, the int’resting tracks,
The soft, lilting voice that can make you relax
When he asks you to text in or phone in or fax
In a way that is strangely endearing.
Driving home in the car with the sound turned to max.
Now the end of the Creedon Show’s nearing.

Our must-listen radio programme of choice,
The arguments over the Mystery Voice,
The summer is over, no cause to rejoice,
Oh no, there’ll be nobody cheering.
For midnight was always the home of Val Joyce,
And the end of the Creedon Show’s nearing.

Insomniacs everywhere jump with delight,
That lilting Cork accent will soon see them right
And will help them to get through the still of the night
And to banish the things they are fearing,
While the early morn risers will curse from a height
That the end of the Creedon Show’s nearing.

At the hour of the witches and of the undead,
Where angels are known to be fearful to tread,
He’ll be looking for listeners at nighttime instead,
But I don’t think I’ll be volunteering.
I can’t stay awake when I’m tucked up in bed,
Though the end of the Creedon Show’s nearing.

Those wry observations are running out fast,
Now clever and quirky are things of the past,
Let’s hope the great music goes out with a blast,
And I’m sure that the heat will be searing.
So thanks for the memories to John and the cast,
For the end of the Creedon Show’s nearing.

Nice Bit of Weather We’re Having

The rain batters down
On the country and town,
As we gaze out the window and shiver.
In our bright plastic macs,
Sure, it’s hard to relax
When we notice the height of the river.

The North Wind doth blow
With her promise of snow,
And rampages wherever she pleases,
While we bow our head
And redouble our tread
As we battle those cold, savage breezes.

Each long-waited summer
Turns out quite a bummer,
Dismissed in September’s post-mortem,
For the promise of May
Doesn’t meet us halfway
As we leap straight from Springtime to Autumn.

Pervasive, bland drizzle
Ensures we don’t sizzle,
The clouds rush in from the Atlantic,
And the sun’s golden sheen
Only seldom is seen
In depressions from large to gigantic.

The crap Irish weather
Oft bonds us together
The country unites in frustration,
And black, white or brown
We all bicker and frown
At the cold and the precipitation.

We work up a sweat
When its dismal and wet
And we’re still lighting fires in July,
While in hot, sunny places
They’re creaming their faces,
With ne’er an odd cloud in the sky.

But every so often,
The weather gods soften,
With blue skies and warm sun displayed…

Then we moan ‘bout the heat
And our hot, sweaty feet
And can’t wait to get into the shade.

I’ve Seen the Future of Eurovision

Those manic Finns
With monster grins
And high-watt insurrection,
Have turned the whole of Eurovision
In a new direction.

A lilting song
‘Bout Ding Dang Dong
Or raindrops on a petal
Has now been rendered obsolete
By thumping heavy metal.

From Ballyfree to Roumanie,
From Iceland to Albania,
They’ll grow their hair in homage to
This retro metal mania.

The powerful ballad’s
Last year’s salad,
Banging heads makes winners,
While Iron Maiden records serve
As textbooks for beginners.

Our Daniel oughta
Feel the water,
Get his act together,
Don the knuckledusters and
The whips and chains and leather.

The bonny air
Is far too square,
Oh Dan, give up the preaching,
Grab the mike and give us all
Some high-falsetto screeching.

For Europe’s sweet
On driving beat
And shouted, twisted vocals,
And Mammy’s charms and loved one’s arms
Will not impress the locals.

So, like the Finn,
Let’s all buy in,
And make a bold decision
To swan around in Death’s Head masks
For next year’s Eurovision.

The Month of May

The fair month of May is upon us at last,
The thick woolly jumpers discarded.
The shivering mornings are hopefully past,
Called to one side and red-carded.

My wife loves the warmth of a fine summer’s day,
In winter she’s fractious and narky.
Her favourite month of them all is sweet May,
No longer incessantly parky.

The buds are all darling, the roses unfurl,
As nature has fun at parading,
The barbecue smoke disappears in a swirl,
The smell of cut-grass all pervading.

The hawthorn blooms white by the side of the road,
The dragonflies hover and shiver.
The consummate bark of the natterjack toad
Resounds on the banks of the river.

When April is done and dark evenings contract,
Great peace on warm breezes is carried.
My wife adores Maytime, despite the sad fact
That that was the month we were married.

Wooden It Be Nice?

Let go my palm, my darling girl,
And lay back on your pillow,
And listen to my story ‘bout
The man they knew as Willo.
Jock McWilliams was his name,
A spruce and poplar man,
Tough as teak, he roamed the glens
Around Loch Inverban.
One day he spied a bonny lass
A –rowan ‘cross the loch.
She landed on a stony beech
And sat upon a rock.
“What is your name?” he asked of her.
“Is’t Holly? Hazel? Breda?”
(He knew he was in love with her
The moment that he cedar.)
“I like to carve wood statues,”
She announced out of the blue.
“What’s your fav’rite wood?” he asked.
She answered, “I love yew.”
Poor Jock, though, was quite elder-ly,
And also somewhat plane.
The lassie flew to Cypress and
Was never seen again.
Jock took to the whisky,
(Well, you know the way Scots pine)
Without a woman at the ‘elm,
His boat sank ‘neath the brine.
He didn’t give a fig for life,
He just got sicker more,
And in the end, the wooden box
Was carried from his door.
It was a cold and wintry day,
The women dressed in fir.
They cast his ash-es to the winds,
Their eyes all quite a-blur.

Sweet dreams, now, my darling girl,
Asleep upon the hay.
That story that I redwood make
The devil seem oak-ay.

Whales – a Rant

I must admit
That every bit
Of logic in me fails
When I observe
The massive leurve
That people have for whales.

Men march, unquelled,
A placard held
By each and every walker,
Composing tunes
Against harpoons,
And harvesters of Orca.

“Save the Whale!”
Their shirts regale,
“Expose this foul allegiance
‘Twixt Japanese
Who roam the seas
And murderous Norwegians!”

Thus they protest
And beat their breast,
And cause a great commotion
To save these giant
Non-compliant
Bullies of our ocean.

But ask a crab
Or hake or dab
Or…anything with scales,
To please reveal
The way they feel
Towards these ogrish whales.

They will relate
And tell you straight,
That whales are born to put
The fear of God
In squid and cod
And plaice and halibut.

They dive and blow,
Above, below,
In North and South Atlantic.
To hear the squeals
Of baby eels
Does drive their mothers frantic.

“Get out the way!”
Yell skate and ray,
Whene’er a whale is spotted,
And inky cuttle-
-Fish all scuttle
Out the way, besotted.

And here he comes,
All teeth and gums,
With skin as smooth as rubber,
This oversized
And much despised
Great floating vat of blubber.

It’s fine to kill
The poor old krill,
Who never hurt nobody.
Yet we regale
The murd’rous whale
Whose practices are shoddy.

It’s really weird –
It can’t be sheared
Or milked or trained or ridden.
It won’t fetch sticks
Or do cute tricks
Whenever it is bidden.

What use is it,
This outsized git,
That does just as it wishes?
It thinks it’s great
To undulate
And frighten little fishes.

It’s not p.c.
To say that we
Should hunt them, and of course it’s
Quite wrong to say
Out loud that they
Are better off as corsets.

But is our Navy
Really gravy?
Do we have great sailors?
Do we breed
True men indeed
The way they did on whalers?

When rolling seas
Would scour and freeze,
When force elevens gusted,
When he who flinched
Was shot or lynched,
And scabs became encrusted.

When men on bows
Spied bulls and cows
With harpoons at the ready,
And though the swell
Was fierce as hell,
Their aim was true and steady.

So let us rise
With steely eyes
And done our winter woollies.
Let’s rid the seas
Of all of these
Great overvalued bullies.

There’s a Bit of a Nip in New Delhi

There’s a bit of a nip in New Delhi,
The thermometer’s never been lower.
In Bombay, they are shiv’ring like jelly,
And they’re wearing their Arrans in Goa.

There’s been quite a frosty reception,
For most, it’s a bit of a bummer,
For the weatherman made the perception
That they’re having an Irish summer.

There Was a Young Poet from Gort

There was a young poet from Gort,
Who left all his limericks short.
He never could end
All the lines that he penned.

The Strokestown Poetry Festival

The e-mail came out of the blue,
I’d forgotten it completely.
Incredulously, I read it through,
Then gave a smile discreetly.
My mouth hung open, catching flies,
When reading, to my great surprise,
I was in the running for a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival.

I called my wife with voicebox hoarse,
And proudly bade her read it.
Although she was impressed, of course
There’s no way she’d concede it!
“My dear,” she said, “I realise
You’re wanting me to eulogise,
But sure, it’s only a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival.

“It matters not, dear spouse,” quoth I,
Responding quite athletically.
“The judges have been struck by my
Attempts to wax poetically.
Henceforth I’ll punctuate my cries
With sonnets praising dappled skies.
Gee! In the running for a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival!”

“Seamus Heaney’s literary talents,”
(She said) “are rightly famous.
Your verse has neither wit nor balance –
In short, you are no Seamus.
I really must apologise
If I should seem to criticise,
But you only might get a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival.”

“I know that you’re made up,” I said,
“Just trying not to show it.
It’s hard to get into your head
That I’m a major poet.
In time, you’ll come to idolise
This wordsmith’s art I exercise,
Nominated for a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival.”

At this, my wife collapsed in mirth,
O’ertaken by the giggles,
(A habit she has had from birth
Which sometimes frankly niggles.)
But sure, she’s trying to disguise
The pride betrayed beneath her eyes
That I am up for a minor prize
At the Strokestown Poetry Festival.

The Flash of Orange

Written in response to the oft-quoted remark that nothing rhymes with "orange"

One summer’s day,
I chanced to stray
Below sweet Ballycorringe,
And by the lake,
I took a break,
And paused to peel an orange.

And as I chewed
That luscious food,
My mind began to porringe,
And in the bushes
By the rushes,
I spied a flash of orange.

“This cannot be!”
(Said I to me,
My neck-hairs stiff and lorringe)
“For I have heard
About this bird,
Bright-painted green and orange.”

“It is the famed
And long-acclaimed
Far-fabled Arctic florringe.
There’s no mistaking
It’s breathtaking
Plume of green and orange!”

As though in death,
I held my breath,
And watched it scour and forringe.
From hawthorn twig
To holly sprig,
I watched that flash or orange.

With garbled song,
It hopped along,
Untroubled by disporringe.
Why had it flown
So far from home,
This ball of green and orange?

And then it sighed,
Keeled o’er and died,
No more would it concorringe.
I watched it break
The still glass lake
In one last flash of orange.

And now I’m old,
My heart feels cold,
And shortly I’ll exporringe.
But still my eyes
Peruse the skies
To spot that flash of orange.

And when I go,
Above? Below?
To Paradise or Thorringe,
I hope that I
Once more will spy
That fabled flash of orange.

The Coldest Place in Ireland

They were rubbing their legs
Up in old Killybegs,
They were rubbing their noses in Tuam.
Around Abbeyleix
They were rubbing their cheeks
To restore normal feelings into ‘em.
It was nippy enough
Out in Ballyjamesduff
As the natives around will concur,
But the chilliest place,
Wasn’t Carlow or Naas,
But the tundra-like townland of Birrrr.

Activities stopped
As the mercury dropped
In the villages skirting Lough Swilly.
And down in Fermoy,
Every man, girl and boy
Said they never had felt it so chilly.
And in Dublin Four,
It was bitter and raw,
So they sported their ermine and fur,
But still, I am told
That it wasn’t as cold
As it was in the townland of Birrrr.

They claimed Minus Seven
In Monasterevin,
And Near-Minus Nine out in Gort.
‘Twas Minus Thirteen
Down in Cahirciveen,
Or so the inhabitants thought.
They said Minus Twenties
In Lifford and Glenties
But all of them had to defer
To the truthful submissions
‘Bout arctic conditions
That came from the townland of Birrrr.

It sleeted and snowed
And the glaciers flowed
Down the far-fabled Mountains of Mourne.
And by Oughterard
Lough Corrib froze hard,
As a terrible beauty was born.
There were penguins at play
On Lough Derg and Lough Ree,
As the Eskimos there will aver,
But the coldest of all
Wasn’t sweet Donegal,
But the perishing townland of Birr.

The Ballad of Jelly Man

In response to the poem below, a listener to the Creedon Show sent me a packet of luminous green greengage jelly...

It started as a simple yen,
An itch that needed feed’n’,
That prompted me to sadly pen
A letter to John Creedon.

Greengage jam, when I was young,
Was succulent and plummy.
I’d hold a spoonful on my tongue
And let the taste o’ercome me.

‘Twas always in the corner shop,
Sat on the shelf discreetly,
Then suddenly this marv’lous crop
Just disappeared completely.

Where did it go? I loudly wailed.
Was greengage now no longer?
Although the mem’ry may have paled,
The yen grew even stronger.

Well John read out my stilted verse
About this jam we’d guzzled.
Replies were long, replies were terse,
But most, like me, were puzzled.

And then one day the postman came
With bills for gas and telly
And also, to our loud acclaim,
A pack of Greengage Jelly!

A list’ner, travelling to the Cape,
Had come across this item.
And all that we could do was gape
And point, ad infinitum.

Eventually my wife said “Right!
Enough of all your messing.
We’ll have it for our tea tonight,
Now go and finish dressing.”

She poured the sachet in the bowl
And added boiling water.
“The colour of it’s awful droll,”
Remarked my teenage daughter.

Indeed, it was a Hi-Vis green,
A Sellafield creation,
As if this strange dessert had been
Infused by radiation.

I checked the fridge throughout the day
To shake the jelly lightly,
And yes, it set as hard as clay,
And sat there, glowing brightly.

The dinner ate, the bowl appeared,
Along with four small dishes.
And though my soon just sat and sneered,
I thought it looked delicious.

I held the spoon beneath my nose
To sample the bouquet,
But though I sniffed, no smell arose,
Recalling yesterday.

I placed a spoonful on my tongue,
And let it lie for ages,
But mem’ry bells, alas, weren’t rung
For long-forgot greengages.

Somehow it felt a little lame,
No memories to savour,
For jelly always tastes the same
With no distinctive flavour.

Then suddenly I clutched my throat
And fell down on the lino,
Baying like a wounded goat
And threshing like a rhino.

My family looked down at me
And pushed their bowls away.
“I’ll only have a cup of tea,”
I heard my daughter say.

Slowly I rose to my feet,
Unsteady and voluminous,
My face as pallid as a sheet
(Well, one that’s green and luminous.)

“Oh my God, it’s Jelly Man!”
My son yelled out dramatically.
My wife looked at my verdant tan
And nodded automatically.

For many years, my outsized girth
Had threatened to consume her,
I wobbled round this cruel earth
The butt of people’s humour.

But now I suffer no abuse,
The startled villain cowers.
I’m putting my great fat to use
With superhuman powers.

For Jelly Man now stalks the land
O’er hill and dale and hummock.
I just hold out a flabby hand
And trap crooks with my stomach.

The children point, where’er I’m seen,
And marvel at my belly,
A superhero, fat and green,
All thanks to Greengage Jelly!

Whatever Happened to Greengage Jam?

It came to me
Quite suddenly,
As I lay in my bed –
That wholesome taste
That one-time graced
Our slices of white bread.
Rich and sweet,
‘Twas quite a treat
But, like the Dublin tram,
It’s had its day,
Gone on its way –
The pot of greengage jam.

Look on the shelf
In shops yourself,
There’s jams of every flavour.
Kiwi, plum,
Chrysanthemum,
To sample and to savour.
Blue ones, red ones,
Hard-to-spread ones,
Elderflower and yam.
Oh yes, there’s lots
Of jars and pots,
But not of greengage jam.

When did they stop
This luscious crop?
Quite sudden, or in stages?
Did harvests fail
Through snow and hail?
What happened to greengages?
Was there a coup
In Katmandu?
A putsch in Surinam?
Is civil war
The reason for
The lack of greengage jam?

This wondrous fruit
Of great repute
Just vanished when we blinked.
One day, ‘twas here.
The next, I fear,
It must have gone extinct.
The IFA
Has naught to say,
It shuts up like a clam.
Oh, was it weeds,
Or foul, foul deeds,
Snuffed out our greengage jam?

Whate’er the cause,
It’s time to pause,
And doff our caps with piety,
And bow the head
To mourn the spread
That’s lost unto society.
Technology
Means naught to me,
You can’t eat texts or spam.
It’s quite a cost
That we have lost
The taste of greengage jam.

East West Relations

The lovely Olga Sornov
Was the archetypal spawn of
The new, evolving Muscovite society.
She popped pills as big as Smarties
At the summer season parties
And she chose her lovers with great impropriety.

The blond and wealthy Olga
Had a dacha on the Volga,
With a butler and some horses in the stables,
And a wardrobe quite gigantic
Full of fashions transatlantic,
With all the very best designer labels.

But the Russian winter season
Is both party-less and freezin’,
And Olga did not need her social diary.
So she tried to get a visa
For Los Angeles and Pisa
But the Government rebutted her enquiry.

But then a circus came a-touring,
Which young Olga found alluring,
A cowboy circus all the way from Texas,
In which they rounded up some cattle,
And then staged a Wild West battle,
With an arrow piercing Custer’s solar plexus.

But the hero of this catchy
Little show was an apache,
Yes, Johnny Shotgun was a true blue Injun.
He was brave and lion-hearted,
Jet-black hair so neatly parted,
Performing feats of daring without whingein’.

And when Olga Sornov saw him
Cut the cowboys down before him,
She knew at once this was her opportunity
To exchange her frozen palace
For a mansion out in Dallas,
And therefore she pursued him with impunity.

Well, to shorten this long story,
And avoiding details gory,
Olga was successful in her venture,
Though some spiteful tongues quite snidely,
Whispered loudly, whispered widely,
That Johnny must have suffered from dementia.

They were married in St. Basil’s,
Where the architecture dazzles,
And Olga Sornov-Shotgun she became.
And the newly-hyphenated
New American now stated
“I always liked a double-barrelled name.”

An Uplifting Experience on the Way to Work

Listeners to the Creedon Show were asked to write in with "an uplifting experience on the way to work"

I leave the house at half past six,
Replete with tea and Weetabix,
And with a certain soupcon of self-pity.
Half-dazed I drive down country lanes,
Towards the tower blocks and cranes
That dominate the skyline of the city.

To keep myself awake, I note
Each fur and blood-bespattered coat
That contrasts with the enervating greenery.
There’s mice and cats and rats and crows
All laid out flat in sweet repose
To point accusing fingers at machinery.

The radio compounds the mood
With news of yet another feud,
And tragic stories all in quick succession.
And, as I near my place of work,
The car-horns seem to go berserk,
By which time I’m suffused by deep depression.

But, in the car park, I take stock
And gaze up at my tower block,
And rays of sunshine blow away the thunder.
It’s time now, near my journey’s end,
To go inside and then ascend
The famous Elevator of Great Wonder.

It’s spanking new, this tower block.
The lift, though, is an ancient crock
That once adorned an Eastern bloc apartment.
And every morning, squashed inside,
We take the feared white-knuckle ride
Up to the lofty inventory department.

Many people just can’t hack it,
Say it makes a fearful racket,
Others simply can’t abide the shaking.
But though our faces all turn white,
We clench our teeth and hold on tight,
And listen to the sound of stomachs quaking.

Penned in, like a herd of cattle,
Up and up and up we rattle,
Like a ride in Disneyworld, Orlando.
And yes, you’re right, there’s always one,
Pretending it’s firm ground he’s on,
Cool and unconcerned like Marlon Brando.

But most of us become alive,
As we ascend to ‘twenty-five’
With cobwebs blown away in violent fashion.
We pour out of the buckled door
Into the welcome corridor,
All ready to start working with a passion.

The ride in this demonic lift
That brings us to the twenty-fift’
Is borne by all our team quite resolutely.
To reach our goal and still survive
Makes sure we start the day alive.
An uplifting experience? Absolutely!

AA Roadwatch Part 3

He sat there in the traffic jam.
Oh God! His blood was boiling.
Before his eyes the red mist swam,
His engine needed oiling.

He hadn’t moved for half an hour,
Around him cars stood static.
Expression menacing and dour,
His fury was emphatic.

Beside him, in this ghostly scene,
Unfathomable and hellish,
A taximan began to clean
His outsized nose with relish.

The traffic light turned back to red
Way, way off in the distance.
He smote his fist against his head
And questioned God’s existence.

The flames of hell were once described
Long, long ago by Dante,
But Dublin gridlock, thus prescribed –
It really ups the ante.

Then, just as he’s about to burst,
And lose the plot completely,
A Navan accent, well-rehearsed
Comes tripping o’er him sweetly.

“There’s queues five miles from Carlow Town,
In Cahir, the traffic’s crawling.
In Waterford, the bridge fell down,
And Arklow is appalling.

‘The traffic lights are stuck on red
In Galway city centre.
The Jack Lynch Tunnel’s blocked, it’s said,
And not a car can enter.

‘In Cavan, hail and hurricanes
Have caused some road subsidence,
A landslide’s blocking several lanes –
Police are seeking guidance.

‘There’s spiders on the road in Naas,
Giraffes in Termonfeckin,
Traffic’s at a snail’s pace
Because of rubber-neckin.’”
Entranced he sat, spellbound by such
A ducet Navan accent,
His anger melted by its touch,
A spoken-word relaxant.

“Who cares about this curséd jam?”
He asked himself the question.
“Do I really give a damn
About this great congestion?

‘Why worry if your gasket breaks?
Why bow to apoplexy?
For Nicola Hudson even makes
The traffic news sound sexy.

‘She’s like a wet cloth on your brow,
A pint in scorching weather,
A swishy tail upon a cow,
Or all of them together.

Oh yes, the folly of my ways
Sweet Nicola has shown me.
And now the flames no longer blaze,
And nevermore will own me.”

Thus becalmed, with peace anew,
Plucked from the fires of Hades,
He ploughed serenely right into
The back of a Mercedes.

AA Roadwatch Part 2

A lorry on the motorway
With sixteen tons of fruit
Overturned dramatically
Whilst heading for Maynooth.

Into the resulting mess
A sugar lorry slammed.
Police put out a warning that
The motorway was jammed.

AA Roadwatch

Just outside the big school gates,
The accident occurred.
A little girl came off her skates,
So local people heard.
A tricycle came trundling by
And sadly failed to stop.
The driver kept his gleaming eye
Upon the ice-cream shop.
Calpol, Calpol, everywhere
Flowed from an upturned pram.
A boy with Marmite in his hair
Then added to the jam.
Local infants playing chase
Were tripped up in a flash,
And soothers strewn about the place
Caused three year olds to crash.
The mayhem was made more complete
When Mister Wippy called.
Several tots fell in the street
And uniformly bawled.
The hopscotch game was smeared with blood,
That like a river flowed.
The Gards in Limerick say you should
Avoid the Childers Road.

The Ballad of a Thwarted Pip

Some imitated Elvis, with the sideburns and the swagger,
Some grew their hair like Lennon, while some others favoured Jagger,
But me? I wasn’t very good at curling up my lip,
And so, from quite an early age, I yearned to be a Pip.

When me mam went out, I would push back the kitchen table,
Pretending I’d been signed up to the Motown Record label.
Gladys Knight on 45 would really let it rip,
And I’d be there behind her, doing vocals like a Pip.

I’d hear those sweet sounds coming down, and ‘cross the floor I’d glide,
Getting paid for staring at Queen Gladys’s backside.
In practised choreography, I’d wave my arms and skip,
Me sister in hysterics, as I tried to be a Pip.

I didn’t fancy carpentry, I wouldn’t be a plumber,
Completely unimpressed with selling ice-creams in the summer.
My teacher, looking worried, said I ought to get a grip,
And doubted I’d the qualities to make it as a Pip.

Possibly he had a point – for one thing I was white.
I had no sense of rhythm and my harmonies weren’t tight.
With glasses and mad acne, sure, I didn’t look too hip,
But still I held on to the dream that I’d become a Pip.

They knew that they had made it when they went to Motor City,
With records like “The Friendship Train” and also “Nitty Gritty.”
Her backing group weren’t quite in tune, but that was just a blip,
Their reputation would improve, when I became a Pip.

I bought the suit and shoes, so I’d be ready to impress,
And scoured the personal columns of New Musical Express.
I’d only get a single chance, I mustn’t let it slip.
Oh boy, would Glad be glad, when I applied to be a Pip!

Gladys’ star was rising, she was hailed in speech and prose,
But though I checked the ads each week, no vacancy arose.
It seemed as though she ran a very tight and loyal ship,
And I became quite doubtful that I’d ever be a Pip.

Vandellas? They just came and went, they dropped away like flies,
And every week I read about a Miracle’s demise.
But Gladys’ bum had some strange hold, I heard somebody quip,
For no-one that I heard of, ever ceased to be a Pip.

And then one day, I heard the news – a Pip was down with flu,
I bought my airline ticket, and I soared into the blue.
I didn’t have a second thought about the mammoth trip-
At last! This was my destiny! My chance to be a Pip!

But in the space of time it took to fly from coast to coast,
I heard a jumped-up wannabe had pipped me to the post.
The news cut me up badly like the flailing of a whip,
And I vowed that I’d get even with that interloping Pip.

I followed them around the States, with vengeance on my mind.
A woman scorned had never felt such fury unconfined.
My shoulder nearly buckled, as I carried round that chip
Of how I had been thwarted in my hopes of being a Pip.

And thus I say, Your Honour, I am guilty of this crime
Of putting powdered laxative in this man’s rum and lime.
So lead me out in manacles, and tear me off a strip –
I did it all for Gladys, and the dream of being a Pip.

On the Feast of St. Pancake

On the feast of St. Pancake, the kids push and shove,
And my wife is most cynically flattered.
They crowd round the mixture with eyes full of love,
And if spilt, then the whole lot get battered.

Some prefer sugar and some go for jam,
Preferring the sickly sweet filling.
I ought to have lemon, but sadly I am
Afflicted by taste-buds unwilling.

Each year we agree that this annual fare
Should be much more often repeated.
But our greatest intentions turn into despair,
And our quest for more pancakes defeated.

Each year we converse about pancakes of yore,
And examine each other’s traditions.
The difference between us then comes to the fore,
When viewed from respective positions.

She always had pancakes instead of her dinner,
While we hungry hippos had both.
Which kind of explains why my wife’s so much thinner,
And I am afflicted by sloth.

Keep the Lid On

If you do not put the lid upon the teapot,
Surprisingly, the tea will not stay hot.
Of this, there is no doubt,
The laws of science bear this out,
For all the heat escapes out of the pot.

And if there is no lagging in your attic,
The heat will all escape out of the roof.
To turn the boiler way up high
Will merely serve to heat the sky –
A physicist will offer ample proof.

Those fortunate enough to own a coupé,
Never leave the top down when it’s freezing,
For the wintry weather numbs
Feet and nose and ears and thumbs,
While the roof maintains a temperature that’s pleasing.

So use a little logic in cold weather,
When ice has frozen up your welcome mat,
For the remedy is clear
When it’s Baltic over here,
Go out and buy yourself a woollly hat.

Help!!

Valentine's Day again...

I knew I was in trouble from the moment I awoke,
Being such an unresponsive, unromantic bloke,
The soppy songs and sentiments all seem to touch a nerve,
Fancy having one whole day devoted just to lerve!

I came to work this morning like a jumpy, nervous sparrow,
Nervous, nay, quite petrified of Cupid’s fateful arrow.
Like a soldier under heavy fire, I had to dodge and swerve,
To get to my employment, quite unscathed by heavy lerve.

They’re all around us, everywhere, those big, red hearts and kisses,
The fulsome dedications to your husband and your missus.
Unashamed and unabashed, they shout their thoughts with verve,
Pitifully afflicted by this crazy thing called lerve.

The heart is such a marvellous thing, it serves to keep blood flowing,
It’s big and red and squishy and it helps to keep us going.
Beyond that brief description is the medical preserve –
Even famous surgeons cannot come to grips with lerve.

I don’t know much about it, they say ignorance is bliss,
Imagine all the smelly germs you get from one short kiss.
They say the art of romance is a long, slow learning curve –
I’d fail Foundation Level in the Junior Cert of Lerve.

I know I should have stayed in bed, avoided all the vehement
Bunnikins and Squidgeypants, and such terms of endearment.
I suppose these poor romantic fools all get what they deserve,
But must the rest of us endure this overdose of lerve?

Dundrum

It’s the largest shopping centre in existence,
Enough to make a shopaholic swoon.
There’s a rumour going round with some persistence,
That astronauts can see it from the moon.

From front to back is quite a lengthy distance,
You’ll never get around it in a day.
A million tills all ringing with insistence,
All keen to take your hard-earned cash away.

It practises a total self-subsistence,
Providing everything that you might need,
Employing several thousand shop assistants
Of every nationality and creed.

The men, though, aren’t lured in by car de-mistants,
Determined to avoid it like the plague,
They’re organising unified resistance,
And sending a petition to The Hague.

Divvying Up The Housework

I run a tight and proper ship, I make sure things are tidy.
Myself – I’m somewhat Crusoe-esque, my family are Man Friday.
I seek out any sloppy work with undeterred voracity,
And rectify it (in a supervisory capacity.)

My wife and loving children all pay heed to my opinions,
And do their chores quite willingly, as one expects from minions.
Everyone looks forward to my evening-time inspection -
Their faces light with joy when there is no need for correction.

I run my fingers ‘cross the shelves, in case they need a dusting,
And flecks of mud on football boots, I simply find disgusting.
I go through all the ironing and measure all the creases,
Yes, my quest for perfect housework hardly ever ceases.

Hairs discovered in the bath are carefully recorded,
And punishments for this offence judiciously awarded.
Duvets must be placed with a symmetrical precision,
And woe betide the malcontent who argues my decision.

I run a tight and proper ship, my family are grateful
That I take on this thankless job that everyone finds hateful.
I notice things that aren’t placed straight, if only in a small way,
Like, just for an example, those four cases in the hallway.

Sticks and Stones

Sticks and stones may break my bones,
And kitchen knives may scar me.
And beer kegs can break my legs,
Just like the Russian army.

Dominoes may crush my toes,
And lead to amputation.
And also my wife’s apple pie
Can cause asphyxiation.

Babies’ bibs can break my ribs
And cause severe gashes,
And bowler hats as big as cats
Can tear out my eyelashes.

Grains of sugar can be a bugger,
And pot-pourri’s distressing,
And drunken flies may pierce my eyes.
God! Isn’t life depressing?

Power

He sits on the path on an old wooden stool,
The same as the ones that he sat on in school,
And everyone passing him thinks he’s a fool,
But he knows in his heart he is not.

His hair is unkempt and his beard is greying,
The cord wrapped around his oul’ ganzy is fraying,
Yet the smile on his face is forever conveying
The fact that he cares not a jot.

He presses the button, the lights turn to red,
And both of the long lines of traffic stop dead.
But he doesn’t cross, he just sits there instead
With a faraway look in his eyes.

And all of the drivers of Fords and Toyotas
Look at their watches and rev up their motors,
And talk of the rights of the tax-paying voters –
That fool should be cut down to size.

The roar of the engines is quite seismographic
The gestures are wild and the language is graphic,
Internal combustion in stationary traffic,
But lacking the strength to explode.

Minute by minute and hour after hour,
He presses that button to show off his power,
Yet sits as serene as an orchid in flower
On a stool by the side of the road.

Poor Old Jock

Poor old Jock McPinkerton.
His firm went to the wall.
But with all his redundancy,
He came out best of all.

So with a lump sum in his hand,
He looked around to see
Where best he could invest his loot
Most profit-ab-ally.

Now Jock enjoyed the vino,
Be it rose, red or white,
And so he bought a vineyard on
A southern facing site.

Alas! Alack! The vineyard failed.
The grapes just would not grow.
His fellow Shetland Islanders
All said, “I told you so.”

For it had been a hair-brained scheme
Devoid of guile and cuteness.
In fact, the whole damn enterprise
Could be described as fruitless.

Overflow

“Who was the last person to wash their hands?”
“It isn’t fair,
It wasn’t me,
I washed ‘em just
Before me tea.”
“That was three long hours ago.
We haven’t got an overflow.
The water’s swimming ‘cross the floor
And flowing out
The bathroom door.


You


Cannot



Let

The water run; please turn the tap off when you’re done
And if you don’t want me to shout,
Then try and pull the stopper out.
These simple rules do not
Forget: And then I won’t
Get my feet wet.

Noble Gesture

Dave Coulthard let Mikka Hakkinen through
To win the Australian Grand Prix.
It was such a noble thing to do!
I wouldn’t have done it if it was me.

Mr Cadbury

Mr. Cadbury takes great care
To sign his name on every square
Of Whole Nut, Plain and Fruit and Nut,
Turkish, Rum and Raisin, but
Did anybody stop to think?
The man must never sleep a wink!

Every night and every day,
He sits and signs his life away.
What a way to spend one’s life!
[And don’t forget his loving wife!]
You’d think that he would get his staff
To help to forge his autograph.

Monging

“Tell me, Mister Ironmonger,
How do you mong iron?”
“You must be on your metal, son,
And never give up tryin’.”

“Tell me, Mister Rumourmonger,
How do you mong rumour?”
“I heard it from a neighbour’s friend,
You must be in the humour.”

“Tell me, Mister Warmonger,
How do you mong war?”
“It’s always been a battle, lad,
I cannot tell you more.”

“Tell me, Mister Fishmonger,
How do you mong fish?”
“You put them in their plaice, my boy,
Exactly as you’d wish.”

“Tell me, Mister Scaremonger,
How do you mong scares?”
“I tell them I will tie their feet
And push them down the stairs.”

Interior Design Fault

It wasn’t Mrs. Peacock with the dagger,
‘Twas not a spanner-wielding Reverend Green.
It wasn’t Colonel Mustard
For he’s just a cowardy-custard,
And Professor Plum was nowhere to be seen.

Miss Scarlett swears she wasn’t in the ballroom.
Besides, her hands are white, not red and bloody.
And the florid Mrs. White,
Why! She’d been fast asleep all night
In a comfortable armchair in the study.

Poor Doctor Black expired, he wasn’t murdered.
No-one left him lying on the stair.
The autopsy showed he had a
Badly perforated bladder,
For he couldn’t find a toilet anywhere.

George’s Fake Left Testicle

George’s fake left testicle
Has made him melancholic.
Asked why this was
He said, “Because
My life is just shambolic.”

Fatherly Love

My daughter, who is twelve years old
Went down on bended knees.
“Oh, can I do the washing up?
Oh, Daddy, Daddy, please!
I don’t want to watch the telly,
I don’t want to go and play.
You sit down and rest yourself,
I’ll do your jobs today.

The young lad, who is nearly ten
Said, “Go and rest yourself!
I’ll nip upstairs and make the beds
And then I’ll dry the delph.
I’ll bring you in a cup of tea
And biscuits, if there’s any.
Don’t look so suspicious,
This will not cost you a penny.”

The baby of the family,
Who’s only just turned eight,
Said, “Please don’t sweep the kitchen floor,
Although it’s in a state.
I’ll do it in a minute when
The other two are through.
Go inside, put up your feet,
We’ll do it all for you.”

I gathered them around me and
I felt their heads for bumps,
But, though I tried, I could not find
The slightest trace of lumps.
I asked them if they felt okay
And each one answered yes.
What on earth could be the cause
Of so much helpfulness?

I went into the sitting room,
My wife was in there knitting.
I flopped onto the sofa just
Beside where she was sitting.
“What’s the story?” I enquired,
“It isn’t Fathers’ Day,
And everybody knows my birthday’s
Seven months away.”

“Why must you look a gift horse
In the mouth?” my wife replied.
“It’s time they did the washing up
And plenty more beside.
You know you won a tenner on
The Lottery last night?
I told them it was half a mill,
Now amn’t I a shyte?”

Epitath

A seamstress all her working life,
She thought her job was rotten.
Her headstone reads, “My Darling Wife,
Now Gone, But Not For Cotton.”

Dad’s Wisdom

When I was young, with lots of hair,
I’d moan to Dad, “Aw! That’s not fair!”
The inevitable response would come –
“Neither is a black man’s bum.”

Celtic Invention

The High King of Tara
[One Fintan O’Meara]
Did walk down to Laragh
One bright summer’s day.
But halfway to Laragh,
This Fintan O’Meara
[The High King of Tara]
Did stumble and sway.

“This sun, it is baking.
Me feet, they are aching.
These sandals are making
Me feet feel the heat.
Have none of ye Fianna
In all ye’re lives seen a
More blistered, obscener
Pair of oul’ feet?”

Then one of the party,
Named Conor McCarthy,
A lad hale and hearty,
Spoke out in loud tones: -
“Oh, Fintan O’Meara,
Great High King of Tara,
This road down to Laragh
Is littered with stones.

I can’t get a handle
On your choice of sandal.
It’s really a scandal
Your footwear’s so old.
It’s plain that your soles, sire,
Are riddled with holes, sire,
Put your feet in these bowls, sire,
Of water so cold.”

So Fintan O’Meara,
[The High King of Tara]
While halfway to Laragh
Did bathe his feet well.
Then spoke the bould Conor,
“Excuse me, your honour,
Me mate, Denis Bonner
Has something to tell.”

So Fintan O’Meara
[The High King of Tara]
While halfway to Laragh,
Bade Denis to speak.
“Your shoes are quite frayed, sire,
I’m a cobbler by trade, sire,
These boots I have made, sire,
Are really unique.

They’re made out of leather,
They look well together,
They’re great in hot weather
[The heels have a lift.]
They won’t fall asunder
In sun, hail or thunder,
They’re really a wonder –
They’re yours as a gift.”

The King took the present
From that skilful peasant
And, in a voice pleasant,
Said, “Boy, these are beauts!
These boots you’ve presented
Cannot be augmented.
D’ye know ye’ve invented
The first High King boots?”

Ambition

Some people want to meet Beckham,
Or Harrison Ford or Mel C.
To each and to all, I say feck ‘em,
I’d rather meet Pat Ingoldsby.

Unhinged

The notice, in red letters writ,
Said, “This Door is Alarmed.”
And so I stopped and spoke to it,
Until it was becalmed.

The Kuwait Bazaar

Beneath the burning eastern sun,
Bargains abound for everyone.
Discerning buyers can, perchance,
Purchase goatskin underpants
Sandwiches of ox’s tongue,
Candles made from camel dung,
Yaks’ hair shirts and leather socks,
Jewellery made out of rocks.
Yashmaks specially for your ma-
The Kuwait Bazaar
Is
Qu-ite bizarre.

The Jilted Bride

I had a dream the other night,
About this upstart, Lily White.
And how, with passionate desire,
She tried to capture Sam Maguire.

Now Lily, as you know yourself,
Had long been left upon the shelf.
For, though she scarcely needed urging,
For forty years she’d been a virgin.

Bold Sam had made a lot of passes,
At many other lovely lasses,
And, though poor Lily’s heart was true,
Sam was always only passing through.

“Always the bridesmaid, ne’er the bride,”
The neighbours all around her cried.
“For though you may well try your best,
Your heart’s desire is heading west.”

But Lily, with great self-deceit,
Decided she could not be beat.
She made arrangements with the priest,
And organised the wedding feast.

She baked a cake and cut the flowers,
While counting down her spinster hours,
And all her friends in celebration,
Booked their trains from Newbridge Station.

But when she got to Dublin town,
Her memory did let her down.
And therefore, so the story goes,
Upon that fateful day she froze.

And when she got down to the church,
Bold Sam had left her in the lurch,
A jilted bride, she wailed and cried,
That Sam was not there at her side.

But he was nowhere to be found,
For he had left that hallowed ground.
And Lily learned that afternoon
That Sam’s new bride had worn maroon.

So Sam went off with the Galway hooker,
And, as for Lily White, well……. f--- her!!

Sorry About This But…Er……

They speak my name around the world with reverence and piety.
To some, I’m Krishna, Yahweh, or more simply, God Almighty.
In many different languages, I’m known by many names,
[There’s a woman in Angmassalik refers to me as “James”]

I used to talk to prophets many, many years ago,
But now I just sit back and let you get on with the show.
More and more, I realise that I am being ignored,
So I’ll share with you a secret to prevent me getting bored.

I hope you’re sitting comfortably, you’ll find this quite sensational,
You see, yourself and everything are just imaginational.
To put it plain, in black and white, you do not have existence,
So, as you do not have a will, don’t offer me resistance.

For I am one gigantic brain, there’s nothing else but me,
Sitting here in solitude for all infinity.
No stars or planets, land or sea, no Carling FA Cup
Sorry for deceiving you, I made the whole thing up.

I feel I should apologise and give an explanation,
But all that I possess is one immense imagination.
I dreamt it up from start to end, alas! it isn’t real –
Anything you say and do and anything you feel.

The Earth itself, the dinosaurs, the tales of Ancient Rome,
Your wife, your Nissan Sunny and that building you call home.
They never were, they’re not there now, nor will they ever be,
So mull on that while drinking up your non-existent tea.

Read All About It!

Tongues of flames and radiation!
Biggest ever conflagration!
Fireball of huge proportions!
Solar wind in gross contortions!
Helium and hydrogen!
Only in this morning’s Sun!

Ode to Joy

In fact it’s the other way around,
Feckin’ Joy owes me a pound.

My Oscar Acceptance Speech

With buttocks clenched, and stomach wrenched,
I watched in fear and hope,
As the faded actor’s fumbling fingers
Tore the envelope.
He grappled with his glasses just
To reinforce the tension,
And then he called my name out and
Dispelled my apprehension.

I jumped and hollered, waved and yelled,
I really celebrated,
As everybody all around me
Standingly ovated.
I kissed the blonde beside me
Whom I only vaguely knew
[She had a 42-inch bust,
I nearly kissed that too.]

And, as I bounded down, I saw
The other nominees,
Smiles frozen on their faces
Like a rare disease.
Such moments only come too rare,
But, oh! What joy they bring us.
I abandoned all hypocrisy and
Gave all three the fingers.

Cavorting madly up the steps,
I grabbed my precious Oscar,
Then yelled a high soprano that
Was never heard in “Tosca”
Arms outstretched and head held back
I milked the glory, yet
I kept my knuckles tightly wrapped
Around that statuette.

And when the roar subsided,
I did take hold of the mike,
And said, “I bet you cannot com-
Prehend what this feels like.
It’s like a million birthdays, or
I’ve won the Lottery.
Make no mistake, nobody else
Deserves this more than me.

I won’t thank my director for
I won this thing despite him.
I’m having a party afterwards,
There’s no way I’ll invite him.
Though all his brainless minions
Serve him with great devotion,
He couldn’t direct a stranded whale
Back into the ocean.

My lovely leading lady, she’s
So elegant and fair,
Ably reconstructed from
A set of Tupperware.
Neurotic to the nth degree,
She lives on pills and coffee,
And yet it’s quite self-evident
She cannot act for toffee.

Whoever wrote the dialogue
Should spend some time in prison.
They are not fit to shovel shit
On children’s television.
And everybody on the set,
A bunch of sad fanatics –
I’ve seen much more professionalism
In amateur dramatics.

My darling wife, I realise
Your life is very hard,
Swanning all around LA
With my gold credit card.
Mascara, lip-gloss, all the works,
Like some decrepit harlot.
So, you sod off! I’m off to find
A nice young nubile starlet.

Movie Titles

I watched “Silence of the Lambs” last night.
I wasn’t really gripped.
There’s not a single sheep in sight –
Who wrote the fecking script?

I turned on “Grease” the other day,
Expecting things Aegean.
It was all set in America,
Not even European.

“One flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
I sat through every minute.
I wasn’t really that impressed –
There was no birdlife in it.

Movie titles are so obscure
I know what their defence is –
“A play on words.” Ah, horse manure,
I call it false pretences.

Speech On The Opening of a Lidl Store Next Door To An Existing One

I’d like to thank the Lidl men for their kind invitation,
To play a small yet vital part in this great celebration.
The staff who put in so much work – we thank them for their labours,
[We’re full of admiration for our Oriental neighbours.]
Some people might have questioned the wisdom of locating
Another Lidl store next door to one they’re not vacating.
Competition is the key, ask any cash-starved mother,
It’s great to have two Lidl stores competing ‘gainst each other.
And so I wish this new store well, I’m sure of its success,
And in a few years time, there might well be a third I guess.
And then we’ll have to call this store the “Lidl in the Middle”,
But up until that time, it will be just “Lidl by Lidl”.

Homage to the Best Place Name in Ireland

I’m a Termonfeckin farmer, I have Termonfeckin land,
All my cows are marked with my own Termonfeckin brand,
But I was feeling lonely in my Termonfeckin life,
So into town I went and found a Termonfeckin wife.

Our Termonfeckin marriage, though, was full of spite and rancour,
And very soon I lost her to a Termonfeckin banker.
The Termonfeckin dinner dance evolved into a farce,
When I turned around and kicked him up his Termonfeckin arse.

The Termonfeckin bar-steward then jumped across the bar,
And threw me out the door against my Termonfeckin car.
My Termonfeckin wife, she took my farm and cows as well,
And left me sad and lonely in my Termonfeckin hell.

Forget the Stone Roses….

With leaves so green and stems so red,
The fuschia in our flower bed
Surveyed the garden with a glance,
Derisive of the other plants.
The scarlet petals seemed to say,
“We don’t like you. Go away.”
But as I watched it from afar,
It strapped on a maroon guitar,
Plugged it in and played a chord,
Which made the other plants applaud.
And, as its leaves intensely quivered,
My neck hairs all stood up and shivered,
It started lashing out a song,
The gladioli played along,
The hebes kept a perfect beat,
A violet sang with voice so sweet,
But the fuschia plainly was the star,
As it lashed out the slide guitar,
Note on note just soared away,
Like Clapton only hoped to play.
Songs of passion, full of soul,
This was the fuschia of rock and roll.

Cool Talking

Said Captain Oates to Captain Scott,
“It’s bloody cold, I kid you not!
I’ve got a frozen piece of snot,
Size of a cannonball.”

“Oh, Captain Oates,” said Captain Scott,
“I grant you it’s not over hot.
Let’s see your frozen piece of snot.
I bet it’s really small.”

Said Captain Oates to Captain Scott,
“God, is it bleeding cold or what?
Look, here’s my frozen piece of snot,
It isn’t small at all.”

“Oh, Captain Oates,” said Captain Scott.
“What’s heat like? I have quite forgot.
Wrap up that frozen piece of snot
And put it in your shawl.”

Said Captain Oates to Captain Scott,
“I think I’m frozen to the spot.
Watch out for that there piece of snot,
In case you have a fall.”

“Oh, Captain Oates,” said Captain Scott,
“I think my toes have gone to pot.
Lets hop aboard your piece of snot
And then we’ll be quite tall.”

Said Doctor Wilson, turning pale,
“This expedition’s bound to fail.
If you’re so cold in Waltham Vale,
What will happen when we sail,
Towards that southern polar trail?
We won’t return at all!”

Cooking Exam

In the cooking exam, Annabelle was disgusted
By the lumps in her gravy and lumps in her custard,
And when she discovered her sharp knife was busted,
She knew straight away she would not cut the mustard.

Another Step

The Risen Christ spread out his arms to welcome everyone,
His shadow fixed upon the cross, thanks to the angled sun,
The new church opened up its doors to walls of pristine white,
The pine of pews and altar looking welcoming and bright.

No jewelled altar sparkled, and no stained glass window shone,
No golden lectern there to lean a leather Bible on,
No weighty chandelier hung down from a painted ceiling,
The natural simplicity was all the more appealing

The children fiddled with their ties and scuffed their polished boots
The mothers in their finery, the fathers in their suits,
The politicians fixed their ties and then they fixed their smiles,
And beamed at everybody as they stood up in the aisles.

Outside the church the local Scouts were gathered in some force,
While inside at the organ there was Sister Clare, of course.
The folk group and the children’s choir were also in in the throng
Hoping their performances would prove to be on song.

The priests of parishes around were there with patience sitting,
With Father Joe among them, which was really only fitting.
The Cardinal was there as well to do the dedication,
And give us all his blessing on this day of celebration.

And many people young and old from round the neighbourhood,
Worked in many different ways to help the common good,
It seemed the whole community had gathered for one day
To share in this great milestone, to worship and to pray.

Father Eugene lead the singing, which was hardly a surprise,
His deep and golden voice surmounting little babies’ cries,
And when the walls were watered and the tabernacle dressed,
Father Jones got up to speak, the way that he does best.

Although we have a brand new church, this isn’t a beginning,
The times are hard but by this church we see that we are winning.
At last we have a real church, a focus for our town,
Another step along the road we’ve chosen to walk down.

The new church is impressive, though its vital that we ought to
Keep in mind that, after all, it’s only bricks and mortar.
What good is such a lovely church, if none goes inside,
Although I’m sure its wooden doors are always open wide?

People make communities, and people shun them too,
Mortice locks and window blinds that noone can see through.
Lets hope this church in Huntstown can draw out both friend and stranger,
And be a haven free from stress, anxiety and danger.

A Shitty End

He heaved away the manhole lid,
Panting deeply as he did.
Then gazed down deep into the hole,
A pitiable, troubled soul.
With shaking hands and ruptured breath,
He contemplated his own death.
“Goodbye, world,” he shouted lamely,
Then jumped into the manhole gamely.
Shortly afterwards he died,
Verdict – death by sewercide.

Two Dolphins

Two dolphins swimming in the ocean,
Arching with a graceful motion.
One then called out to her mate,
“I need the toilet, please don’t wait.
I’ll see you down beyond the bight.”
And then she dived down out of sight.
The other dolphin didn’t hear
[He had some water in his ear]
And so he hung around because
He thought she’d come back where he was.

Evening fell and then came night.
The dolphin down beyond the bight
Came swimming up to find her friend
Still waiting at the harbour’s end.
There then began a fearful row.
One got called a stupid cow.
The other came back twice as strong
And so it went on all night long.

Two haddocks bravely swam between
And tried their best to intervene,
But only found their feeble voices
Arguing at cross porpoises.

Thirsty Work

Two brothers, parched, lips all cracked,
Water was the thing they lacked,
Crawling o’er the burning sand
In uncharted desert land.
Eventually, their wand’rings led
To a dried –up river bed.
Distressed to find out that nobody
Else was present at the wadi,
They kept on crawling on their knees
Towards a mirage of some trees,
But what they found there, almost dead,
Was one more dried-up river bed.
But still they bravely persevered
Although their own destruction neared.
Lungs a-burning, fit to burst,
Mouths all caked up from the thirst.
Cobwebs in their minds were spun,
Underneath the cruel sun.
As vultures circled overhead,
Lo! A dried-up river bed!
The younger one, now almost gone,
Whispered “Dave, I can’t go on.
We’re just going, dearest brother,
From one ex-stream to another.”

The Floods of November 2002

Five long hours in my car,
Bursting for the loo.
I didn’t want to add to it
But what was I to do?

The Dublin Earthquake

I survived the Dublin earthquake
Back in 1984.
My fags fell off the table and they
Landed on the floor.

The Best Line I Ever Heard

The best line that I ever heard
Came from a kid of four,
His mother grimly dragging him
Into a clothing store.
She threatened if he didn’t come
He might receive a box.
“But, Mum,” he argued, “I’ve already
Got a pair of socks.”

Near Miss In Bari

The sniper on the thirteenth floor
Cocked his rifle one time more.
He glanced up at the ticking clock
And lined up the apartment block
That lay across the busy street
In Bari’s deep and sticky heat.

The target on the eleventh floor
Looked around from wall to door
And shook the beaming landlord’s hand,
And said, “It’s just what I had planned.”
Seeing the silhouetted figure,
The sniper slowly squeezed the trigger.

The target however did not flinch.
The bullet missed him by an inch.
Through the flimsy wall with force
It carried on its downward course.
Three miles further on it struck
The tyre of a pick-up truck.

Where’s the link between the three?
The man with his new tenancy,
The sniper who was out of luck,
The driver of the pick-up truck.
Within a minute it happened that
All three people got a flat.

My Philosophy on Poetry

Poetry, I feel, should always scan and rhyme,
Not just occasionally, but all the bleeding time,
Unfortunately, this one happens to be a prime
Example of one that doesn’t.

My Biggest Fault

I know quite well my biggest fault,
There’s no need for a lecture,
It’s really pretty obvious,
There’s no need for conjecture.
My mind is quite ephereal,
As flimsy as a locust.
I find it very difficult
To keep all my thoughts focussed.
At first, I’m so determined
And with clarity I ponder.
But half an hour down the road
My thoughts begin to wander.
To finish what I started
Would be cause for celebration.
But how can that be possible
If I lose concentration?
I’ve been to see psychiatrists
And told them of my problem,
But when they answer, I… er…

Money Man

Did sterling work throughout his life,
So forthright and so franc,
Ate dinar with a fork and knife,
Though marked down as a crank.

He had a yen for gambling,
A punt upon the horses,
Though lacking cents, he watched them ambling
Round and round racecourses.

He used to lira lot at Penny
[“Euro –nly young the once.”]
Got pounded by her boyfriend, Benny,
Who thought he was a ponce.

He tried to sing like Johnny Cash,
But couldn’t hit the notes,
So, for a change, he had a bash
Way up in John O’Groats.

Mirror Image

The computer sits on the desk,
One big eye, unblinking.
The young man sits at the desk,
Two small eyes. Unthinking.
Staring for hours on end at each other.
Pretending to be a friend to each other.
Each one secretly thinking
They’re in control.
Each one thinking they’re playing
The starring role.
For a thousand years,
Ten thousand stares,
They’ll gauge each other.
For a thousand years
They’ll cage each other,
Eyeing each other,
Vying with each other.
Playing the staring game
Until they’re quite the same.

Midnight Mass

Every Sunday morning, you
May find us in our usual pew,
Nodding at familiar faces
[Also in their usual places.]
Staunch members of society,
We treat the Mass with piety,
And, though the sermon’s rarely dull,
The church is hardly ever full.

However, on a Christmas Eve,
The change is wondrous to believe,
For, through the church’s open door,
Stream people never seen before.
The old, the young, the smart, the crass –
They all arrive at Midnight Mass,
And fill the church from front to rear,
For the first time in the year.

They chatter through the homily
And fidget inattentively,
And I can never understand
Why they can sit and we must stand,
And, as I look at them, I find
Unchristian thoughts invade my mind,
And, in the season of goodwill,
I wish the bastards only ill.

Mantra On Crashing My Car For The 400th Time

Go is green, and Stop is red.
Why can’t I keep that in my head?

Ma Bicyclette a Disparu

Ma bicyclette a disparu
Quand je roulais dans la rue.
Et tous les petits enfants ont
Ri a ma predicament.

The same poem when edited by spellchecker on my computer: -

Ma bicyclist a disport
Quad jet relays dams la rue
Et toes les petites infants not
Rim a ma predicament.

Jennings and the Whale

Jennings was a prawn
From the day that he’d been born,
And he lived deep in the Mariana Creek.
He was friendly with a ray
Who was jovial and gay,
A little ray of sunshine, so to speak.

One day, while out exploring,
Jennings heard a mighty snoring,
And noticed a great shadow overhead.
‘Twas a mighty sleeping whale
With a massive dormant tail,
Descending slowly onto the seabed.

Poor old Jennings tried to swim
But it was too late for him,
The whale landed softly on the sand.
And as the big beast napped,
Little Jennings lay there trapped,
Not moving a pituitary gland.

Now a tuna named Piana,
Who lived in the Mariana,
Had witnessed the event and gave a shriek.
And, very deeply worried,
She had turned around and hurried,
Back to Jennings’ little village in the creek.

“Whale on Jennings!” she did yell,
As she dived beneath the swell,
And all of Jennings’ neighbours gathered round.
And she blurted out her tale,
Of the prawn squashed by the whale,
And even little Ray of sunshine frowned.

“Don’t think I’m being bossy,
But let’s organise a posse,”
A very badly shaken seahorse neighed.
And everyone agreed
‘Twas a good idea indeed,
And they all prepared to rush to Jennings’ aid.

Ray confided to a sole,
“My thoughts I can’t control,
I love that prawn much more than just a brother.
But please respect my wishes
And don’t tell the other fishes.”
“I’m the Sole of Discretion,” said the other.

So Piana led the way
To where poor Jennings lay,
Somewhat captivated by the whale.
The great beast was still snoring,
So the fishes started clawing
At it’s dormant though extremely massive tail.

With a shiver and a cry,
The whale opened up an eye,
And looked around to check out the commotion.
But, though the fishes shouted,
The great mammal merely pouted
And stared back with an absence of emotion.

Then a herring said, “Oh, dear!”
And looked in the whale’s ear,
Then turned to the assembly quite dismayed.
“This creature must be Geoff,
Who is famously stone deaf,
I think I’ll have to be his herring aid.”

The herring got some flags
Made of soggy plastic bags,
And placed himself before the whale’s eyes.
Then he flagged in semaphore
About a hundred words or more,
As the massive beast looked on in great surprise.

Then the herring said, “Oh, good,
I’m pretty sure he understood.
Everyone stand back and give him space.”
And as the whale rose,
They saw Jennings with his nose
Firmly squashed back up into his face.

Little Ray, who’d been forlorn,
Quickly rushed up to the prawn,
And kissed him like you wouldn’t kiss your brother.
And then he gasped because it
Meant he’d come out of the closet,
And all the other fishes eyed each other.

Little Ray and Jennings dwell
‘Neath the Mariana swell,
And their neighbours all accept that they are gay.
“Let nature take her course,”
Said a kindly old seahorse,
And nodded in an understanding way.

In Moderation

I should “drink in moderation”,
That’s why I’m
Drinking in moderation
All the time.

Go Granny Go

Granny, do you think its right
To do that bungee jump tonight?
At least agree to wear a hat,
Your perm won’t perish under that.

Granny, are you sure it’s sane
To parachute out of a plane?
Just promise you won’t get annoyed
If your new shoes get destroyed.

Granny, do not think it’s easy,
Rafting down the great Zambezi.
For, though it really sounds quite neat,
You’d miss your Coronation Street.

Granny, do you think it’s droll
To ski and sledge up to the Pole?
Though if you must, then go ahead
But bring a bonnet for your head.

Granny, I know you know best
But…climbing up Mount Everest?
Though if you hold your handbag tight,
I’m sure that you’ll be quite all right.

Granny, will you stand the pace,
When blasting into Outer Space?
You won’t have time to say goodnight,
While travelling at the speed of light.

Funny Face

His nose was holy and serene,
The devoutest nose that’s ere been seen.
Hold that pose!
Goodness nose.

His ear made a noise like a car,
A car you could hear from afar.
Folks, don’t jeer!
Engine ear.

His eye held two tablets of stone,
The most mountainous eye ever seen.
Look and cry!
Siney eye.

Five Minutes

The blissful peace of night was shattered by the harsh alarm,
More piercing and more cutting than the rooster on the farm.
Maurice Talbot stirred as if awoken from the dead,
Slapped his fist down on the clock and snuggled up in bed.
There was no special reason for this unexpected sloth.
He’d not been on the gargle, he’d not stayed up late, or both.
He only wanted five more minutes in his private world,
And so, beneath the covers, Maurice stretched and yawned and curled.

One whole hour later, Maurice woke up with a start,
The brightness of the morning sunshine quickened up his heart.
He snatched the clock and stared at it and uttered a strong curse,
“Flipping heck!” he yelled out loud, or maybe something worse.
He leapt out of the bed and very hurriedly got dressed,
Putting on his jumper backwards underneath his vest.
He had no time for breakfast and he had no time for shaving,
No breakfast either, adding to the time that he’d be saving.

He hadn’t time to stop and buy his normal morning paper,
But hobbled down the country lane as fast as he could caper,
Glancing at his watch he ran on with a sense of panic,
As if he were the engineer aboard the doomed Titanic.
Oh, how he cursed his slothfulness that made him very late
To do his job and pull across the level crossing gate.
Somewhere o’er the fields he heard the whistle of the train,
And then a big explosion, half a mile down the lane

Edible Warriors

The Rainbow Warrior landed on a far-flung distant island,
Somewhere east of India and somewhere west of Thailand,
The crew decided to go ashore to do some exploration,
And so they battled gamely through the outsize vegetation.

They hadn’t gone a mile or so when they were quite dumbfounded,
When suddenly they looked around and found themselves surrounded.
Circling them were hostile natives, spears already flexed.
The crew all wondered what on earth was going to happen next.

The natives all were camouflaged against the jungle scenery,
The sailors were quite roughly seized and frogmarched through the greenery.
Some distance off they heard a drum announcing their arrival,
And each one gulped and wet themselves and prayed for their survival.

Sadly the poor Rainbow crew were right to wet their trousers,
They came out in a clearing with some bockety straw houses.
Naked children played together eating worms and soil,
While four big copper cooking pots were coming to the boil.

The sailors’ clothes were handed out and then they all got skinned.
The natives threw them in the pots and licked their lips and grinned.
They added shreds of bamboo shoots and bits of snot for seasoning,
To give the meal a bit of oomph, and you can see their reasoning.

They dished out all the mariners just as the sun descended,
And everybody ate their fill and said that it was splendid,
Except for one sad youth dressed in a brand new pair of jeans
Who got told off by his ma because he wouldn’t eat his Greens.

Can’t Complain If I Did

[tribute to John Otway]

It’s been a long time since I heard
That oft-remembered homestead on the farm,
When I spent so many hours
Being wary of the flowers
For fear that they might try and do me harm [yeah]
In days when I could clearly see,
When I was young and really free,
Upon that misty mountain of my youth,
When life was viewed in bluey-green
And Cheryl and sweet Josephine
Both did their best to teach to me the truth.

The time of course has long since gone
Since Louisa rode her horse upon
The track that travels up to Whiteleaf Cross.
Her ghost still rides out to this day
Around deserted Place Farm Way,
Now overgrown with dandelions and moss.
It’s hard to dream up stupid rhymes
While living in these trying times,
Its murder, man, but I’m still a believer,
My mind just keeps on pondering,
Like a gypsy, it keeps wandering,
I might as well be living in Geneva.

Big Bottle of Tippex

What I’d like, what I want, what I really, really need
Is a very Big Bottle of Tippex indeed.
Then I’d go through my life and put things to right,
And I’d cover my mistakes with a band of white.
All the girls that I missed because I was too shy,
My overindulgences of whiskey and rye,
Not persevering with the clarinet
Accepting that first cigarette,
Stepping in shite on a third form trip,
Banging my artificial hip,
Worrying if I should go on strike,
Smiling at people I don’t like,
Time spent flicking the remote control,
Schillachi and that bleeding goal,
The nights of suffering brewers’ droop,
All wiped out in one foul swoop.

Badger McLoughlin

Badger McLoughlin was mad as a coot,
He’d roll down hills in his Sunday suit,
He’d hop like a frog down the side of the street,
And stick balls of wool on the ends of his feet.
He once chased a pigeon seventeen miles,
And stored perspiration in bottles and phials.
He lived in a house that was old and quaint,
Covered in choc-o-late, rather than paint.
On Sundays, you’d see him go off on a hike,
Panting while pushing his pedalless bike.
He’d howl at the sun and he’d wail at the moon,
And he’d smack his head hard with a tablespoon.
He’d argue with bin men and chuckle at nurses,
And shower the gards with malevolent curses.
He’d shout out “Come in!” when he knocked on a door,
And never quite knew what a phone was for.
He’d brag in his youth he had once known a lady,
A CIE ticket inspector called Sadie.
At cheeky kids he’d wave his stick,
If one of them should call him a thick.
He’d go to Macdonald’s dressed in pyjamas,
Festooned with pictures of hairy llamas.
He’d count his shoulders and scratch his head.
It’s a crying shame old Badger’s dead.

Ultimatum

The Chippendales were hopping mad,
They called it barefaced cheek
To find their wages had been cut
By ten percent a week.
The Union then got involved,
And warned without a doubt,
That if the case was not resolved
They’d pull their members out.

The Boss

I’m sick of your e-mails, your phones and your faxes,
Your credits and debits and pensions and taxes,
I’d love to attack your computer with axes,
And then go to work on your head.

Your big, stupid nose, so immense and preponderous,
Your snide innuendoes and double entendres,
Your joy when Bohemians murder Bray Wanderers,
I wish, oh I wish you were dead.

Your big, stupid smile when you hand out the wages,
Your bollicking sessions that seem to take ages,
I pray that you catch something really contagious
And have to spend years in your bed.

The nicotine stains on your short, stumpy fingers,
The aftershave whiff that just hovers and lingers,
The constant complaints at the cost of Aer Lingus,
Although you face flying with dread.

Your arse so immense and your shoulders so burly,
The hair on your head so untidy and curly,
The way that you manage to leave work so early,
Then talk about swinging the lead.

The way that you never once make your own coffee,
And cheerfully eat someone else’s banoffi,
And if they complain, you just don’t give a toffee,
Your dad must be sorry he bred.

The way that you brazenly fiddle expenses,
Not bothering once to keep up the pretences,
Of being impartial and sitting on fences,
I’d stamp on your face till you bled.

The Microsoft Word that you haven’t yet mastered,
Those crass office parties where you just get plastered,
And God help the woman who calls you a bastard,
That’s where angels fear to tread.

The Ballad Of Massey Ferguson

He loved tractors dearly,
This ardent young man,
But now he is merely
An ex-tractor fan.

The Atlas

The atlas was yellow and not very clean,
And covered in fingerprint-marked polythene,
And dog-eared pages and droplets of tea
Had soiled these crisp pages of geography.

It lived in a bureau behind a glass pane,
Surrounded by Dickens and Shelley and Twain.
Those leather bound volumes so solemn and proud,
Were never removed to be quoted aloud.

The atlas was taller and looked out of place,
And seemed to be lacking in dignified grace.
But every Saturday, after our tea,
Grandma would carefully reach for the key.

Onto the bureau’s drop leaf it was spread,
And silently and reverentially read.
Bosomy grandma and five year old child,
By oceans and mountains and countries beguiled.

We sailed up to the Congo and flew down to Faro,
And scaled the purple-tinged Kilimanjaro,
The fawn-coloured deserts we crossed on our camels
And laughed at the crazy Australian mammals.

We had to walk sideways when visiting Chile,
And both of us thought that Nepal was too hilly,
We sailed the Pacific that straddled two pages,
And crossed the Antarctic in several stages.

Too soon, oh, too soon, it was time to restore
The book to the bureau and lock the glass door.
And on my way home, how my thoughts swooped and swirled,
Impatiently waiting to travel the world.

Now, once in a season, I take down the book,
And, eyes soft and dewy, I tearfully look
At far-distant cities and rivers that wind
Through the fertile green forests that grow in my mind.

These evergreen forests I never will smell,
The tundra, the ice caps, the great ocean swell.
The vast mountain ranges I never will climb,
Because, while distracted, I ran out of time.

And my stomach feels hollow, my hand starts to shake,
And I curse at my senile and stupid mistake,
And I slam the book shut for I simply can’t bear
The dreams of my childhood exposed to the air.

Tall Story

Mister Brown
From Livingstone
Sneezed loudly down
The telephone.

The germs were blown
Down the line
Across the Rhone
To Liechtenstein.

Mister Gold,
A puzzled Swiss
Caught a cold
Because of this.

Tall Story

Mister Brown
From Livingstone
Sneezed loudly down
The telephone.

The germs were blown
Down the line
Across the Rhone
To Liechtenstein.

Mister Gold,
A puzzled Swiss
Caught a cold
Because of this.

Robbie the Robber

Robbie the Robber, a burglar from Youghal
Broke into the basement of Uffingdon Hall.
With hoops on his sweatshirt and standard black mask,
Young Rob was appropriately dressed for the task.

Ascending the steps with a thin pocket light,
He heard an owl hooting deep into the night,
But inside the walls of great Uffingdon Hall,
He couldn’t detect any movement at all.

And so he proceeded in gathering gloom
To the oak-panelled door of the great sitting room,
And, as he stepped through it and clicked on the light,
His eyes were transfixed by the wonderful sight.

There were silver decanters, two hundred years old,
And handpainted vases, all inlaid with gold,
And paintings by Rubens and Pablo Picasso,
And great copper cauldrons all shined up with Brasso.

And coy figurines made of china and pewter
Surrounding the latest, most modern computer
And Victorian stools and Edwardian bureaus,
Obviously worth many thousands of euros.

Rob felt a quickening beat of his heart,
And wondered subconsciously where he should start.
From inside his jacket, he took out a bag
That he’d brought along for transporting the swag.

Scarcely concealing his giggles and sniggers,
Bold Robbie purloined all the porcelain figures.
Candlestick, snuff-box and cutlery tray
All disappeared in a similar way.

And when that great room had been stripped of its wealth,
Roberto moved on to the staircase with stealth,
And gazed at the portraits that covered the wall,
The former incumbents of Uffingdon Hall.

He took out a blade and removed the first Earl
[Along with his wife, a most vacuous girl]
And rolled up the parchment with deftness of hand,
Securing it tightly with one rubber band.

At this point, however, Rob’s fortune ran out.
Lord Uffingdon woke, agonised with the gout,
And decided the cure for his agony lay
In coming downstairs for a small Chardonnay.

Poor Rob heard the bedroom door open and shut
And heard the dull thump of Lord Uffingdon’s foot.
And with marvellous invention, immediately spied
The one perfect place for a burglar to hide.

He jumped in the space where the first Earl and wife
Had been captured in oils in the prime of their life.
Balancing motionless in the great frame,
Bold Robbie assumed first Lord Uffingdon’s name.

The gout-ridden Lord very slowly descended
The great curving staircase to where the steps ended.
He didn’t give Robbie a cursory glance,
Nor look at the occupied painting askance.

But all of a sudden, the frame gave a crack
And Rob was ejected down onto his back.
And, as he lay groaning and dazed and concussed,
Lord Uffingdon hit him with Tennyson’s bust.

The Gards, they were summonsed and came very quickly,
And one of them read Rob his rights rather thickly.
But they were quite taken aback when he claimed
That it was a set-up and he had been framed.

Professor Kevin

Kev put the frog through the mangle,
A strange scientific appliance.
The resulting artistic rectangle
Was a major advancement for science.

Plumbing the Depths

The bathroom people said he was
A really useless chap.
They had to let him go because
He wouldn’t do a tap.

Permanent Firmament?

If you’re outside of the city on a fresh and clear night,
The stars that light the firmament present a wondrous sight.
To sit and watch the movement of the mighty constellations
Must surely rank as one of the most engaging occupations.

Ursa Major, Ursa Minor and Cassiopaeia,
Aquarius the Water Bearer, Ethelred the Queer,
Jonothan the Ambulance, Parsenon the Newt,
Not forgetting Ribbentrop, the Double-Breasted Suit.

But when I gaze upon the stars, I’m filled with fear and dread,
Those billion zillion tonnes of matter perched above my head.
I know that they are far away and doubtless will not fall –
What worries me is whether they are really there at all.

Without reverting too much to an astronomic lecture,
The stars and their existence is a point of mere conjecture.
The distances themselves might be the source of the confusion
Presenting us with what might be an optical illusion.

Save for the Sun, the nearest star lies four light-years away,
Within this myriad of light we call the Milky Way.
So when we gaze upon a star, what we in fact can see
Is how the bastard used to look, way back in history.

It really is quite spooky, looking back into the past,
Before the time of dinosaurs, before Elastoplast,
Before the birth of Marvin Gaye, before the earth had cooled,
Way back into history when only Chaos ruled.

The point that I am trying to make requires a stoic mind,
Providing, as it does, for the destruction of our kind.
And if you’ve given out a loan, or started on a course,
The implications of this thought will fill you with remorse.

Supposing that, three years ago, the universe collapsed,
But we will not find out until another year has lapsed.
The light from even the nearest star will take a year to reach us,
Before we get an inkling of the death of all God’s creatures.

So when I gaze upon the stars, it isn’t with humility,
Rather it is with a sense of our own fallibility,
The stars that I can gaze upon perhaps do not exist,
So I am going to spend this next year permanently pissed.

My Grandma

My Grandma smelled of cinnamon,
Her cheeks were dappled brown,
She tutted at my Grandad when
He tried to act the clown.

My Grandma had big bosoms,
She was gentle and serene,
She made jam roly poly and
Her clothes were always clean.

My Grandma was quite tolerant,
She understood my faults,
She clapped when I did handstands and
Attempted somersaults.

My Grandma had arthritis and
Her legs were shapeless stumps,
And on the dinner table was
A bowl of sugarlumps.

My Grandma used to tell me how
The Germans bombed her street,
She wore a woolly cardigan
And slippers on her feet.

My Grandma taught me dominoes,
She taught me etiquette,
And how, in certain circles, it
Was impolite to sweat.

My Grandma played piano with
A fluent, easy air,
She used to make remarks about
The state of Grandad’s hair.

My Grandma had good china and
It rarely left the shelf,
When she forgot a birthday, she’d
Be angry with herself.

My Grandma sometimes came along
When we went to the beach,
She’d sit upon a rock and stay
Out of the water’s reach.

My Grandma was a lady,
Yet she had a common touch,
Her smile was warm and real and
I miss her very much.

In Laws

He signed the affidavit after David,
And carefully made out his will to Will,
But he was unprepared when sued by Susie,
Because he hadn’t paid the bill to Bill.

I’m Going to Give Blood Today

I’m going to give blood today,
About a pint or so.
More than likely red, I’d say,
And probably type O.

I’m going to give blood today
Because it’s mine to give,
And also, as I sometimes say,
It might help someone live.

I’m going to give blood today,
It makes me feel quite good,
Though it is odd, I always say,
That someone wants my blood.

I’m going to give blood today,
I’ve never once felt sick.
The doctor blushes when I say
It’s just a little prick.

I’m going to give blood today,
I’m not afraid to risk it.
The things I’ll do, I’m wont to say,
For Guinness and a biscuit.

I found a Golden Eagle

I found a Golden Eagle,
It was looking pretty sick.
It looked more like a seagull
That had flown into a brick.

I acted sympathetic
And I bathed its damaged wing
It did look quite pathetic
When I put it in a sling.

My darling wife was spitting.
She thought that I was cracked.
She said I was committing
A most ill-eagle act.

Higher Thoughts

Our bishop died the other day,
A sad event, I’m bound to say.
But what was strange was that His Grace
Had marked his final resting-place,
Not among the common people,
But on a ledge within the steeple,
High above the congregation
Beside the bells’ tintabulation.
I’d not be up for that myself,
Perched up on that lofty shelf.
I wouldn’t find the bells appealing,
That close to the steeple’s ceiling.

But once his coffin had been highered,
Many said he’d been inspired.

Hard Centres

I had a chess set made of wood,
I played it with my brother.
But somehow we mislaid a rook
And had to buy another.

So, for a laugh, I bought a set
That promised some reward,
With chocolate pieces, milk and dark,
Upon a chocolate board.

My brother was a bit unsure
As we commenced our game.
He thought that eating all the men
Would be a crying shame.

However, he soon changed his tune
When he procured my knight.
“Strawberry crème,” he smiled as he
Dug into his first bite.

Next I took his bishop and
Proceeded to digest
A luscious fondue caramel
With eagerness and zest.

It was a satisfying game,
Unusual and inventive,
Our minds were concentrated on
The edible incentive.

Then suddenly I took a pawn
And licked my lips with relish.
Then yelled out loud as I bit in –
The pain was only hellish.

The centre was as hard as nails,
It split my tooth asunder.
I really was annoyed at the
Confectionery blunder.

I took the set back to the shop
And threw it down with scorn,
Asking, did they know that they
Were selling hard-core pawn?

Fountain of Youth

Many, many moons had passed,
Since Sam had met the Rabbi last.
As he grew old, religion waned,
And apathy and boredom reigned.

But then a light dispersed his fog,
And he went to the synagogue,
And found what he was looking for, a-
Mong the pages of the Torah.

And, suddenly he felt quite young,
And sound of mind and strong of lung,
And as the rabbi commentated,
Sam felt quite rejuvenated.

Fighting Talk

When he tried to jockey her,
She hit him with her Nokia,
And wapped him very firmly on the jaw.
So he sent to her a text
Warning what would happen next,
And that was what began the phoney war.

Deer Oh Deer

Watch the fawn
With surprise,
He was born
With no eyes.
See him jumping
When you sneeze,
Look, he’s bumping
Into trees.
Cannot see
Where to run.
Mind that tree!
Mind that gun!
Wandering blindly
Just behind
A very kindly
Mother hind.
Tripping over
Tree trunk roots,
Sniffing clover,
Eating shoots.
It’s a shame,
Do not jeer.
What’s his name?
No Eye Deer.

Deaf Wish

One summer’s day, while by the sea, I went out for a walk,
When suddenly I saw a bottle, stopped up with a cork.
‘Twas early morn and I looked round and saw I was alone
And so I picked the bottle up and sat down on a stone.

I squeezed the cork between my thumbs and suddenly it popped out,
And right before my very eyes, a purple genie hopped out.
I was somewhat bewildered, although not quite overcome
With joy, as I’d been hoping that the bottle contained rum.

The genie was four metres tall and had a bulbous nose,
With rings of sparkling jewels on his fingers and his toes.
But most remarkable, he had a bandage round his earring,
Which made me wonder if he had some trouble with his hearing.

The Genie stretched his arms and shouted, “Free! I’m free at last!
I’ve been inside that bottle for a hundred decades past.
I thank you for my freedom, sir, and in the usual way,
I’ll grant to you a single wish to use upon this day.”

“A single wish?” I questioned him. “Now, Genie, tell me please,
What happened to the custom that they be dispensed in threes?”
The Genie smiled self-consciously and checked his fingernails,
Saying, “You surely don’t believe in children’s fairy tales?”

“Touché!” I smiled, “A single wish?” and wrinkled up my brow.
“Wish wisely!” warned the Genie with a big sarcastic bow.
I thought and thought and thought some more, and finally did impart
The thing I’d always wanted from the bottom of my heart.

The Genie looked quite puzzled and asked me was I sure?
I told him that I’d dreamt of it for twenty years or more.
He shrugged his purple shoulders, saying, “Just as you desire!”
And then there came a roaring and the sound of rushing fire.

But when the smoke had cleared, I was looking down upon
A very, very small piano-playing Elton John,
And I looked up at the Genie with a countenance so vexed,
As Elton asked me, would I like to hear “Nikita” next?

The Genie said, “You asked for it!” and went on the defensive.
I’m afraid I used some language that was ribald and offensive.
“You stupid oaf! You big baboon! You nincompoop!” I hissed.
“Why on earth would I wish for a twelve inch pianist?”

Costly Error

There’s cards for taking out money,
There’s cards for Esso and Shell,
There’s cards for the supermarket
And library books as well.
These cards fit into your wallet,
They’re no problem at all to the user,
But if you ever should mix them up
You might easily end up the loser.

A cousin of mine called Nathaniel
Once found he’d no money at all.
So he and his card betook themselves
Down to the hole in the wall.
He inserted his card without thinking
And waited to enter his pin,
But the machine just frowned and wanted to know
The type of a card he’d put in.


Nathaniel’s organ donor card
Was useless for taking out money,
And though Nathaniel initially smiled
The machine didn’t think it was funny.
It wouldn’t give up the card though he
Got down on his knees to beg.
And though he eventually got it back
It cost him an arm and a leg.

Chief Inspector Mulligan Part Deux

Chief Inspector Mulligan
Arrived at last in Crete
And in the Mediterranean
He bathed his size twelve feet.

“Hello, hello, hello,” he said,
When people passed him by,
His helmet quite conspicuous
Beneath the cloudless sky.

In the shallows, people splashed
On rubber boats and lilos,
Chief Inspector Mulligan
Did scratch his rather high nose.

He ran back to his hotel room
And emptied out his case
And put some Factor twenty five
Upon his sunburned face.

He tucked the suitcase ‘neath his arm,
And marched back to the shore,
While all around him, people wondered
What the trunk was for.

He got back to the water’s edge
And very keenly noted
That when he set the suitcase down,
Amazingly it floated.

He pushed the suitcase out to sea
And, leaping on with grace,
Cried to the world, “Beware! The Chief
Inspector’s on the case.”

Cheese – A Comparative Study

Charm is an
Old Parmesan,
While Gouda
Is cruder.
Leicester
May fester,
But Cheshire
Is fresher.
Mozzarella
Is a good seller
But Feta
Is better.
Wensleydale
Is immensely pale
But Cheddar
Is redder.
Brie
Is twee,
Philadelphia
Is healthier.
Double Gloucester
Is an impostor
But Gruyere
Is true, yeah.
Emmental
Is elemental
And Danish Blue
Is plainish too.

Cheers!

Diluted Lemon,
She offered me.
I thanked her very
Cordially.

Arms Imbalance

In my left arm, there are bones,
Which I suppose is pretty good,
There are sinews, there are tendons,
But there isn’t any blood.
There are arteries and muscles,
And veins are ten a penny,
But rich, red haemoglobin?
I’m afraid there isn’t any.

My right arm, on the other hand,
[Excuse the dreadful pun]
Is bursting at the seams with blood,
When all is said and done.
The Irish Blood Transfusion Board
Can never figure out
Why my right arm has a glut whereas
The left arm has a drought.

An Irish Solution

The Civil Servants had a problem with precipitation,
The inclemency of Dublin weather caused them consternation.
The carpark by their offices was very seldom choked,
But scurrying between them meant they oftentimes got soaked.

A covered passageway between the carpark and the building
Was instantly dismissed as being merely lily-gilding,
As was a suggestion to provide for men with brollies,
[This idea’s proposers being clearly off their trolleys.]

Some people said that brollies should be given out to all,
Though some asked, would they not be a lot better with a shawl?
Or should they get expenses, or perhaps some compensation
For suffering the anguish of routine moisturisation?

The Head of the Department was then called upon to act
With complete impartiality and not a little tact.
Eventually his verdict came with due deliberation-
He’d set up an umbrella group to view the situation.

A Good Rhyme

I’d been trying all morning to think of a rhyme,
Unprofitably using my company’s time.
Doodling and scribbling and scrunching up paper
And sucking the tip of my car windscreen scraper.

A colleague of mine who is smarter and brighter,
Then asked me my problem and borrowed my lighter.
“I’m trying to think of a good rhyme for broccoli.”
“I’m sure that’s quite easy,” he answered me cockily.

Wyoming Tale

When snow was done and spring had sprung,
The cattle of Wyoming
Were free to wander, old and young,
No limit on their roaming.

All across the summer plains
The bovine hordes would amble,
Dodging intercity trains
And eating grass and bramble.

But when the leaf fell off the tree
And hounds began to shiver,
The cowboys would search thoroughly
Beside the great Wind River.

To find their brand in that great land
Was always such a battle
They spent more time than they had planned
In finding errant cattle.

Now deep within this wild expanse,
There lived a wily farmer,
Who only owned one pair of pants,
They called him Billy Palmer.

Billy owned three thousand head,
But he was quite meticulous.
He’d count them all, which people said
Was blatantly ridiculous.

He never lost a single calf
Through doing stocktakes sloppily.
Things were never done by half,
He always did them properly.

One fine and bright autumnal day,
Old Billy-Boy inspected
The cattle in the new-mown hay,
His hired hands had collected.

With pen and pad, he set about
The business of stocktaking,
Although his men were wont to doubt
The fuss that he was making.

He marched the cattle one by one
Between two sturdy fences,
And by the setting of the sun,
He finished off the census.

He worked the long addition out,
And tugged his forelock lightly,
And then a naughty word came out,
Although he said it tightly.

“Thirty cattle short!” he cried.
The cowboys started moaning.
“Search this country far and wide,
And stop your bleedin’ groaning!”

Three whole weeks his minions rode
The vast Wyoming prairies,
But saw no cows from their abode,
No more than they saw fairies.

Billy watched the men ride in
Without the bovine thirty,
He took another swig of gin
And muttered something dirty.

He knew it was the brothers James
Who’d stolen Palmer cattle,
For in the town he’d heard their names
Through local tittle-tattle.

Frankie James owned paper mills
That hardly were successful.
They just kept mounting up the bills,
Which Frankie found quite stressful.

Jessie James worked in a store,
Performing inventories.
He could count to ninety four,
If one believed the stories.

And so they’d stolen Billy’s cows
To see them through the winter,
And hidden them behind the house
Owned by their ma, Jacinta.

But Billy knew old Sheriff Jed
And paid to him a visit.
“It’s time you acted, Jed,” he said.
The Sheriff said, “Oh, is it?”

“Yes,” said Billy. “Can’t you shake a
Leg, and nab them hustlers?
The store boy is a stock-taker,
The paper boy’s a rustler.”

Whoops!

The spacemen climbed out of the capsule,
And went for a walk on the moon.
They told the pilot to wait for an hour,
They were sure to be back pretty soon.

But one of them’s wristwatch was faulty,
The one they were relying upon,
And when they got back to the launch pad,
Apollo 8-40 had gone.

The pilot splashed down in the ocean
To great universal applause,
Till somebody casually asked him
“Hey, Bob, where’s those comrades of yours?”

Valentines Poem

My love is like a red, red, rose
All prickly and thorny.
Oh, please be mine, for goodness knows,
I’m feeling really horny.

Your body is a Beatles song,
A Flying Pickets medley,
Your legs are slim and really long
And Jeez, your arse is deadly.

The priest forgave my sins outright,
Though I was keen and zealous.
He’d clocked you in the Mass last night,
And told me he was jealous.

So, go put on your nicest frock
And lets go on a date,
I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock
And put you down at eight.

I know you’re not the sharpest knife
That lives inside the drawer,
But I don’t want a clever wife –
Just sex for evermore.

Written for a Gerry Ryan competition on the radio, but did not get through!

The Frog and the Princess

Through the wood the Princess skipped,
Along the brook she lightly tripped,
When down the grassy slope she slipped,
And landed in the water,
The noble royal daughter.

There she sat, all cold and freezing,
Breathless sighs all choked and wheezing,
Shivering in the river, sneezing,
As the mist descended,
When she was befriended.

“Are you all right?” a deep voice hailed her.
She turned to see who had regaled her,
As she turned, her senses failed her,
A frog with eyes a-bulging,
Though seemingly indulging.

“You seem nonplussed,” the frog imparted,
“When I spoke, you surely started,
And but I know that you’re kind-hearted,
I would not have spoken,
But continued with my croakin’.”

“Pl-please dear frog,” the princess stuttered,
“I scarce believe the words you uttered.
When you spoke my heart just fluttered-
My nerves have gone all tinglish.
How come you speak English?”

The frog replied, “Ah, there’s a story!
Full of evil, full of glory!
Graphic, violent, dark and gory!
You should have no aspersion
To hear the uncut version.

A prince was I and once upon a
Time I nearly was a goner,
When tragically, young Princess Donna,
A wicked witch deranged me,
Amphibiously arranged me.

One hundred years I’ve spent here hopping,
Avoiding every rabbit’s dropping,
Waiting for a princess stopping,
Frightened lest she miss me,
Hoping that she’d kiss me.”

“Dear, dear Frog!” the Princess cried out,
“My whole world’s been turned inside out,
I thought that princes all had died out.
Come, let me caress you,
Earnestly impress you”

The princess climbed out of the river,
Gave a very little shiver,
Where the cold had chilled her liver,
And sat down in the rushes,
Startling two small thrushes.

The eager frog hopped down beside her,
Tasted her sweet lips of cider,
A little thrill ran down inside her,
Her mind was all a-fogging,
When they finished snogging.

The frog remarked, “That was fantastic!
Your lips are like a red elastic,
And no, I am not being sarcastic,
You really are terrific,
Greatly soporific.”

Donna said, “What’s the prognosis
About the erm metamorphosis?
Perhaps we should increase the doses?”
The Frog Prince nodded madly,
And so they set to gladly.

When the kissing ran its course,
The frog remarked in voice so hoarse,
“Love is truly wondrous sauce!
I praise your good intentions,
And all your kind attentions.”

“Hang on a sec!” the Princess gaped.