Tuesday, September 30, 2008

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.

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