Twas a shame that she died when she did

‘Twas a shame that she died when she did,
Falling foul of the ‘lectrical grid,
She had so much potential,
She was so influential,
‘Twas a shame that she died when she did.

If only she’d seen the loose wire,
How her star could have soared so much higher,
But the wire became live
And she didn’t survive.
If only she’d seen the loose wire.

If her husband had mended the plug,
‘Twould’ve needed no grave to be dug.
She’d have ironed his pants
With a cursory glance,
If her husband had mended the plug.

‘Twas a shame that she died ironing pants,
A victim of cruel circumstance.
At the end of the day,
‘Twas an unseemly way.
‘Twas a shame that she died ironing pants.

The song of a despairing father

As a father, I’m perplexed
About whom she’ll bring home next,
What lamb she’s going to lead up to the slaughter.
I am sure the next poor victim
Will soon rue the day she picked him.
Is it so hard to marry off a daughter?

There has been all shapes and sizes,
Some quite normal, some surprises,
But ultimately none has cut the mustard.
Whether gorgeous hunk or dolt,
She is bound to find some fault
To sour the fruit that’s stewing in the custard.

There’s been doctors, there’s been students,
Lecturers in jurisprudence,
Movie stars and scurrilous reporters.
There’s been schoolboys, there’s been oul’ lads,
There’s been saints and there’s been bold lads
And one I think had several great-granddaughters.

I am sure if Jesus Christ
Could in some way be enticed
To come back down from up above to court her.
I am sure that even He’d
Find it quite tricky to succeed
In meeting the requirements of my daughter.

It seems the male population
Doesn’t match her expectation,
Breath smells bad or nasal hairs need trimmin,’
Oh the list is getting daughter
For my fussy, single daughter.
I daresay after men, she’ll start on women.

I just sit here in my roost
And I’m politely introduced
And sometimes they will shake my hand and smile.
And if I seem a trifle distant,
Bit stand-offish and resistant,
Its ‘cos I know they will not pass the trial.

If I engage in conversation
As an elderly relation,
I feel as if I’m wasting precious breath.
In a week, or little more,
He’ll be promptly shown the door
And I’ll be inching nearer to my death.

To gods Christian and Norse,
I’ve prayed that one might stay the course,
That one of them might live to tell the tale.
If one pacifies the dragon,
Then by God we’ll share a flagon
Of the finest of the country’s real ales.

If only one could subdue her,
He need no longer call me ‘sir,’
I’d praise his name through this and many lands.
He could take my house and car,
Run my tab up at the bar,
If only he would take her off my hands,

But till then I’ll sit and pray
As each new suitor has his day,
Not knowing he’s a number not a name.
Perhaps I’ll smile politely,
Share a witticism lightly –
But if I do or not, it’s all the same.

Sixteen years

It’s sixteen years, my wife declares,
To my most disbelieving stares,
Since we were here in Galway last.
Sixteen speeding years have passed
Since we pushed through those bustling streets
And bought the children sticky sweets
To bribe them into keeping going
With their pace forever slowing.
Sixteen years since sudden rain
Drenched four of us with deep disdain
And forced us in a bland café,
Where we were mugged the tourist way.
And later in the Skeffy Arms,
The Coke glass slipped from sweaty palms
And stained the dress so newly bought,
Which drew from me a sharp retort.
And then we had a blazing row
(Still unsurpassed from then till now)
In which the others on the stage
Gazed awestruck at our righteous rage.
And now we’re in the present tense.
It’s sixteen years since those events.
Oh tribal city of maroon,
Why did we come back so soon?

Shopping with my wife

Standing around while my wife looks at blouses
And dresses and knickers and untapered trousers
And angora scarfs and machine knitted sweaters
And pinstripe pyjamas and flavoured french letters
And swimsuits and corsets and bras with no strapping
And multi-pack briefs that have far too much wrapping
And handbags and knee socks and terylene blazers
Umbrellas and perfumes and stockings –
Ah jaysus!

The fields

As the bumping, grinding train
Left the town of Athenry,
The visible terrain
Changed to fields as we chugged by.
And young Notcher, chin in hand,
Moved by such a wondrous sight,
Pointed long at said fields and
Remarked ’pon their lack of height.
Unlike others we had seen,
Such as those in Ball’nasloe,
These, so luscious and so green,
Laid particularly low.

Speed

Older people tend to go
To places like old Ballinasloe,
But younger people have a blast
And up the tempo in Belfast.

Unfinished symphony

Don’t let your top lip curl, my dear.
I thought it right you knew
I’ve found another girl, my dear,
Who’s lovelier than you.
She’s loyal and she’s dutiful
And never in a mood.
Above all else, she’s beautiful,
A mass of pulchritude.

Oh do not throw the delph, my love,
Lay down that plate and cup.
You’ll only cut yourself, my love,
When you’ve to pick them up.
I thought perhaps you’d bid me well
And thank me from the heart.
For several years you did me well
But now it’s time to part.

Oh please put down the knife, my sweet,
I hate the sight of blood.
So does my future wife, my sweet,
So loving and so good.
We’ve often shared the same pursuits,
I’m sure you will concur,
But when I judge your attributes,
You’re not as good as her.

Oh lay aside that gun, my child,
Although it’s filled with blanks.
For then you’d be undone, my child
And...

Answering my computer

Mr. Paperclip man,
Please explain, if you can,
How it looks like I’m writing a letter?
When it’s clear as bright lighting,
‘Tis a poem I am writing?
A two year old kid would know better.

Does no warning bell chime
When short sentences rhyme
On occasions when “verses” occur?
Does a siren not whistle?
It’s not epistle,
It doesn’t even start with ‘Dear Sir.’

Or are you implying
Without really trying,
That my poems work better as prose?
How dare you infer
Such a critical slur?
Would you like a hard punch in the nose?

So, next time I’m penning
An ode to Lord Denning,
Please do not pop up, if you can.
Though your brain is immense,
No poetical sense
Lies within, Mr. Paperclip Man.

Just desserts

The advertising executive
Was caught with his hand in the till.
Arrested and tried,
Though the crime was denied,
They sent him to Clover Hill.

But only two cells were vacant,
One padded, one hard as hell,
But, although this ad-man
Was not a real bad man,
He ended up given the hard cell.

Lying abed, contemplating a storm

(i)

The gale whipped down from stormy skies.
Our flimsy windows rattled.
Trapped in bed, I closed my eyes
As man and nature battled.
Why can’t we work in harmony,
I desperately pondered?
My mind full of the energy
Out there, just being squandered.

(ii)

The howling wind then reached it’s peak,
It seemed though war had started.
In empathy, I raised one cheek
And eloquently farted.

(iii)

The theatre roofing took the brunt,
The slates ripped up and blown away.
The stage was drenched: the signs out front
Advised the public – rain stopped play.

(iv)

Oh God bless the folk in the Doldrums,
Lying back in their hammocks at ease.
They all should come over to Ireland,
Its clear that they haven’t a breeze.