Tuesday, September 30, 2008

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.

Amy's 21st

(should have been sung to the tune of "The Times are a-changing" but wasn't!)
Did you catch who was driving that sporty coupé
That flew like a rocket down our road today?
I thought at the time it was Nelson Piquet
As the water continued to spray me.
It wasn’t a Micra, compact and light grey
But I’m pretty damned sure it was Amy.

She’s bought a new car and it runs like a dream,
She’s queen of the highway and reigning supreme.
I tell her she’s held in the highest esteem –
If I don’t she’ll undoubtedly slay me!
She’s like a young cat who has just got the cream
And now everyone’s jealous of Amy.

Whatever her sins, they do not include sloth,
Twenty five minutes will get her to Howth.
Her and her car, Jeez, I’m scared of them both –
Wild horses, I’m sure, will not sway me.
Don’t go to Hartstown, don’t go to Ratoath
For fear you might run into Amy.

Lewis Hamilton phoned up to pay his respects
And to doff his peaked cap to the opposite sex.
How many admirers that woman collects
Continues to haunt and dismay me.
We poor mortal drivers are shivering wrecks
When confronted by someone like Amy.

Her skill at the wheel has been loudly endorsed
By drivers of Beamers who often are forced
To stare in dismay at her vanishing exhaust –
She’s one woman who will not delay me!
The speed gene in humans has yet to be sourced
But its flourishing greatly in Amy.

She’s travelled the byeways from Dublin to Clare,
By the time she’s set off, sure, she’s half the way there.
The speed cameras click but they just snap thin air.
“No speed cops will ever waylay me!”
No wonder poor Neil is losing his hair
In the passenger seat beside Amy.

So gather round people, my story’s near done –
Hairdressing’s the game if you want to have fun,
Driving home like a bullet shot out of a gun,
Can’t do that on the pittance they pay me.
So happy birthday, Ms. Tyrrell, you’re now 21 –
God, we’ll never keep up with you, Amy.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Grandad Behan is 80

Across the earth,
There’s joy and mirth,
Whate’er one’s race or deity.
In every place,
Old foes embrace
And kiss each other on the face.
White and black
Get back on track
And slap each other on the back
For Grandad Behan is eigherty.

Croats, Serb,
Peaches, Herb,
Iraqi and Kuwaiti
Are all united
And delighted
That their love is now requited.
Finns and Lapps
Are happy chaps,
No longer argue over maps,
For Grandad Behan is eighty.

Far off in Rome,
‘Neath Peter’s dome,
The Pope speaks to the laity.
“Let us pray,”
They hear him say,
“And give our thanks to God today.
Let quarrels cease
And wars decrease
And may the whole world be at peace,
For Grandad Behan is eigherty.

Mr. Putin
Stops disputin’
Matters grave and weighty.
And, off the cuff,
Declares “Enough!
I’m tired of all this dismal stuff.
I’ve changed my stance,
I’m off to France
To ask Sarkhozy for a dance,
For Grandad Behan is eighty.

Captain Jack,
His eyepatch black,
Cries out, “Ahoy there, matey!
The winds prevail,
We must set sail
And run before the southwest gale.
We must make land
Tonight as planned,
For shipmates, you must understand
That Grandad Behan is eighty.

From Katmandu
To Timbuktu
From Ho Chi Min to Haiti,
In every state,
There is a trait
To shout out wildly “God is great!”
The churchbells ring,
The angels sing,
The Golden Eagle’s on the wing
For Grandad Behan is eighty.

And up in space,
The Martian race
Joins in the fun and gaiety.
They rub their knees
And hop like fleas
And squeak like rabbits eating cheese.
They’re swigging jars
In roadside bars –
The atmosphere is great on Mars
Now Grandad Behan is eigherty.