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.

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.

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.

It’s just around the corner

If you keep very still, you can hear it
Its breathing is shallow and faint.
It sounds very small
Just around the next wall
But I’m told that it definitely ain’t.

There are many who gallantly jeer it
With the carefree abandon of youth.
But you’re right to be wary,
It can be quite scary
When you’re a bit long in the tooth.

The advice is – you shouldn’t go near it,
But no-one can alter their fate.
Although you go running,
Its devilish cunning
And will always be lying in wait.

It doesn’t have much to endear it,
It’s horrible in the extreme.
Its ugly, its hideous,
Its sly and invidious,
As if you are in a bad dream.

If it was a bear, you could spear it,
And its plans would be terminally wrecked,
But its hide is so thick,
You could use a large brick
And it would have little effect.

But strangely, there’s no need to fear it,
There’s no substance behind the façade
And, as it comes nearer,
Its face becomes clearer
And somehow does not seem so hard.

But Mon, you should be of good cheer, it
Has still a good twelvemonth to go
‘Ere you’re captured, defeated
And mercilessly treated
By the big terrifying Five-oh