Neil's 21st

Back in the mists,
Where youth exists,
I see a time when life
Was free from strain
And hurt and pain
And unrelenting strife.
But then one day
Came disarray –
My wife produced a son.
And I was told,
“Your life’s on hold
Till he turns twenty one.”

Some see a boy
As fun-filled joy,
A veritable blessing.
But they, I feel,
Have not met Neil
And put up with his messing.
You couldn’t win –
He’d simple grin
And go on having fun.
Oh God, I said,
I’ll be long dead
Before he’s twenty one.

He was, in school,
Nobody’s fool,
Though lessons never mattered.
Down at the back,
He dodged the flak
And sat around and nattered.
His teachers tore
Their hair and swore
They’d go and buy a gun,
And said, though clever,
He would never
Get to twenty one.

Without a doubt,
He wore us out
With all his bleedin’ messing.
He loved to dance
And flash his pants
And seemed to like cross-dressing.
Down Simon’s head
The egg-yolk spread –
You should have seen him run!
Life was a joke,
A cracked egg-yolk
Till he reached twenty one.

He seemed to breeze
Through life with ease,
Like living in a bubble.
From pan to fire,
He’d just conspire
To get himself in trouble.
Too late we saw
We should ignore
The stories that he spun.
Gold help his boss
In work or FÁS,
When he turns twenty one.

The Leaving Cert
Caused too much hurt
And didn’t seem that funny.
And so he fled
To work instead
To earn a bit of money.
And with a stash
Of hard-earned cash,
A new world was begun.
Hard work, hard play,
Each shagging day
As he neared twenty one.

But there’s no trace
Of life’s fast pace
Upon his boyish features.
No sign of wear
Or greying hair –
Oh God, I hate such creatures!
On me, the lines
Are well-worn signs
I’ve lost and he has won.
There’s much to learn
From those who burn
Through life at twenty one.

So now its here,
Break out the beer.
The day I’ve yearned for ages
Has come at last.
They’re in the past,
Those adolescent stages.
Joy unconfined!
But still I find,
When all is said and done,
He’s still the same,
Still playing the game,
Although he’s twenty one.

The Monster

It is lurking in the shadows like a mugger with a knife,
It’s hiding down a dark and dingy lane.
It plans to introduce a touch of menace to your life
And things will never be the same again.

The giant F embroidered on its putrid polo shirt
Draws gasps of horror from all those who see it.
They instantly react with loud expressions of great hurt,
Instinctively deciding they should flee it.

But no hiding place can save you from this evil monster’s grasp,
No sanctuary is offered by the priest.
Upon a desert island, you’ll still feel his slimy clasp
And inhale the musty breath of this foul beast.

You can fly down to the jungle and crouch in the undergrowth,
You can bolt the doors and check each window frame.
You can hide out in the desert, or in deepest space, or both,
But he will come a-calling just the same.

Around the world, great seminars have failed to find a way
To save the population from this curse.
Science and religion have both failed to save the day,
Despite the fact that nothing can be worse.

But now there is an edict that can help you to survive
The gruesome day when this foul monster comes.
It’ll help you to outwit him and come out, not just alive,
But thriving, as this evil foe succumbs.

On the day he jumps out at you, shake him firmly by the hand
And smile and pat him firmly on the back.
He’ll look at you with eyes that simply do not understand
How come you are not fazed by his attack.

Embrace this effing monster, kiss him firmly on the cheek
And greet him with a slow and friendly drawl.
Suddenly, he’ll shrink and seem quite timid and quite meek,
And no, he won’t seem terrifying at all.

Kate's Easter Message

The people huddled round their tellies,
Expectation in their bellies,
Seeking hope and comfort in this
Time of fear and strife.
Everybody knew Kate Lawless
Had a wisdom bold and flawless,
So they all tuned in to hear her
Speak of God and life.

As she rose, the people waited,
Eyes were peeled and breath was bated,
A sense of hope now growing as she
Climbed the steps to speak.
Prayers were offered up in penance,
Landlords watched in awe with tenants,
Hoping for some words to help
The hopeless and the bleak.

Then in phrases short and measured,
She spoke words that will be treasured
By our children, children’s children,
And their children too.
From the holy scriptured pages,
Wisdom that survives the ages
Was imparted in clear tones as
Comprehension grew.

Love - that’s what her reading told us.
God created, not to scold us
But to cherish and to hold us
To his bosom dear.
Words so eloquently broken
Cut through silence long unbroken
And we knelt down to acknowledge
What she made so clear.

Suddenly the world seems brighter,
Purposeful and light, (despite a
Niggling worry that we might have
Messed things up too much.
Still, the population’s heeding
Kate’s clear message in that reading,
Consequently, we’re all leading
Richer lives, as such.

.

Kate's Easter reading at Whitehall was recorded and broadcast by RTE 1 on Easter Saturday

Ascending Mount Fifty

Up the mountain track we plodded,
Heads that gasped for breath and nodded,
As the leering sun above us
Cackled like an irksome knave.
Strung out in a line, we went on,
Walking sticks at each stage leant on,
All our energies were spent on
Trying to keep up with Dave.
Focussed, ‘pon that long ascent, on
Trying to keep up with Dave.

Up ahead, he strode with vigour.
How we cursed that skinny figure,
As he paused awhile to give us
All a long and cheery wave.
As we gasped and groaned and grumbled,
As we up the steep slope stumbled,
Watching as the loose stones tumbled
Down the hill, we watched as Dave
For another ciggy fumbled.
Would we were as fit as Dave!

“Hurry up!” he shouted breezily,
As the smoke-rings wafted easily
Up to heaven, while we, panting,
Only craved an early grave.
Still we struggled on, unspeaking,
Eying vultures, circling, shrieking,
Bones protesting, muscles creaking,
As we grimly followed Dave.
Strength of purpose slowly leaking
As we plodded after Dave.

Still the sun beat down unkindly,
As we cursed and followed blindly,
Getting almost close enough to
Smell his Old Spice aftershave.
But then he sprang up from his boulder,
Threw his bag across his shoulder.
God! He didn’t look much older
Than the 1980s Dave.
Up to where the air was colder,
Up we followed, trailing Dave.

But then our legs could climb no longer
And the urge to turn grew stronger,
Feeling we could not continue
As the mountain’s helpless slave.
Too high! We couldn’t overcome it,
No 4 x 4s for us to thumb it,
Either turn around or plummet
Down to that deep valley’s nave.
Wait! Who’s that upon the summit,
Waving like a demon? Dave?

Up on high and looking nifty,
There he stood, atop Mount Fifty,
Like a tiny fly upon some
Crumbling Georgian architrave.
Lo! Our journey wasn’t ended.
Pain was once again suspended.
“Come on up! The view is splendid!”
Shouted an ebullient Dave.
So we once again ascended
That great mountain after Dave.

Up and up, although we’re tiring,
Gasping loudly and perspiring,
Fortune favours who? The foolish?
Certainly we’re none too brave.
But we’ll triumph through persistence
(And some medical assistance)
After which, our sad existence
Will be but to follow Dave.
Downhill, far, far in the distance,
We will sigh and follow Dave.

Valentine 2009

Should I regale thee with good cheer?
Should I go fetch a bottle of beer
Or wine,
Sweet Valentine?

How can this humble husband start
Conveying the myst’ries of this heart
Of mine,
Sweet Valentine?

If I’d no gift, what wouldst thou say?
Would thou insist that I should pay
A fine,
Sweet Valentine?

Money’s no object, that’s for sure,
But is their a sum where I should draw
The line,
Sweet Valentine?

How many gifts would set the straight?
Should I buy six or seven or eight
Or nine,
Sweet Valentine?

Should I bring chocolates rich and true,
So you can pick at them as you
Recline,
Sweet Valentine?

Should I bring gifts from far and wide,,
Placed in a hamper firmly tied
With twine,
Sweet Valentine?

Maybe thou’dst like a new divan,
Crafted with loving skill from An-
-Tique pine,
Sweet Valentine?

Wouldst thou have lamb to roast or boil?
Maybe sardines encased in oil
Or brine,
Sweet Valentine?

Wouldst thou like bream or sole or trout?
Cook it myself, or bring you out
To dine,
Sweet Valentine?

See how the day is showered in mist!
Is this coincidence or is’t
A sign,
Sweet Valentine?

Canst thou be sure about my love?
As sure as the smiling moon above
Doth shine,
Sweet Valentine?

Good Golly Miss Rachel, can’t believe you’re 21!

Well, the party’s flying,
Everybody is doing fine,
Auntie Brenda’s trying
To finish off all the wine.
The Tia Maria, I fear,
Is being sunk by Auntie Mon,
I said Good Golly Miss Rachel,
I can’t believe you’re twenty one.

I remember the time you wouldn’t eat your meals,
Stubborn as hell, you would dig in your heels,
Sitting at the table with your beef bourgignon,
Wishing you weren’t seven but twenty one.

Well, Emmet’s been drinking
And he’s come out in a rash.
Have you seen him slinking
Off to John’s private stash?
And it’s clear the beer
Is disappearing fast on John.
I said Good Golly Miss Rachel,
I can’t believe you’re twenty one.

I remember the time when you jumped for gold,
Olympic gold medal at eight years old.
Though you weren’t too hot in the mara-thon,
You can run much faster now you’re twenty one.

Well, Lily is bopping,
She’s getting into the groove.
There ain’t no stopping
Her, watch that young wan move.
Your mamma says Obama’s
Phoned in from the Pentagon,
Saying Good Golly Miss Rachel,
I can’t believe you’re twenty one.

I remember the times down in Cahirciveen,
“500 miles” and “Come on Eileen,”
Singing so loud till your voice was gone,
We don’t hear you singing now you’re twenty one.

And Kate’s sedate,
But she’s looking on all perplexed.
And your mum says “Kate,
It’s gonna be your turn next.”
And your bruv says “Love,
I feel old and woebegone,
But Good Golly Miss Rachel,
I can’t believe you’re twenty one.”

I remember the times down in Sligo when
We’d play silly games with paper and pen.
Happy little duckling tuned into a swan,
It’s hard to imagine that your twenty one
I said I can’t quite believe that you are twenty one,
Happy birthday Rachel now you’re
Twen-
Ty
One.

The Ballad of Padraig and Monica

This tale begins in Dublin town,
The hist’ry book reveals.
He’d a habit of going down
To Moloccha’s for his meals.
She’d come in with all her friends
And he was most impressed,
She was a Mercedes Benz
And stood out from the rest.
Very soon he’d save a place in case she came along,
Their appetite was whetted, the relationship grew strong.

There was no problem in a car
That Padraig couldn’t fix.
She was a French polisher
And she knew all the tricks.
The ring gleamed brightly in the shop,
She stopped dead in her shoes.
He was not inclined to stop
And he still sports the bruise.
They’d go down to the pictures and the man would bang the gong.
Summer passed, September came and wedding bells pealed strong.

The peace and quiet went out the door
When two became a three.
They slept the baby in a drawer
And watched it constantly.
After Mon, there came Annette,
Both parents mighty proud.
But oh, they were not finished yet
And Aiden joined the crowd.
After that they took a break till Brenda joined the throng,
Four young children under six with lungs diverse and strong.

Holidays in Bettystown,
They built a home from home.
The Prefect never let them down
Wherever they might roam.
The pram was tethered to the roof
In search of summer sun,
Providing all with living proof
That all things can be done.
County Meath was far away, the journey seemed so long,
But oh, what fun is possible when the fam’ly unit’s strong.

At length they bought another car
And Padraig went and picked ‘er,
Though Skerries, Rush were just as far
In that old Vauxhall Victor.
The Moira Ladies Club was formed
And soon became a choir.
Every week the group performed
‘Neath Aughrim Street’s church spire.
No better girl than Monica to praise the Lord in song.
The angels looked on, jealous of the voices sweet and strong.

The Dixon’s job was not to be
A long-term occupation,
So he moved on to CIE,
On down at Heuston Station.
Children grew and gradually
They left the family home.
She took it philosophically
And took a trip to Rome.
She was Fay Wray in his hands, he was still King Kong.
Twenty five years married, sure, and they were growing strong.

Time goes fast and bodies age
And organs go berserk.
Fate turned o’er another page
And Padraig gave up work.
He found it hard to understand,
No more the highway rover.
Aiden took the Starlet and
His driving days were over.
Eventually there comes a time when something must go wrong,
He’s been dying now for thirty years and he’s still going strong.

He was like an extra limb
And, like a loving spouse,
She got fed up with having him
All day around the house.
Her latent love of bingo grew
And she took every chance
To paint or sing or go off to
A Termonfeckin dance.
Posh and Becks showed its okay to pose in a sarong –
Padraig drew the line at that, but they’re still going strong.

The grandkids now are all but grown-
Up members of the cast.
Like an eagle, time has flown
And zipped by all too fast.
They still serve up a tasty dish,
One cooks, the other serves.
He still goes down for his fish
And still gets on her nerves.
They celebrate with family, that’s where they both belong.
Fifty years of wedded bliss and they’re still going strong.