(Tune: Bad Moon Rising)
Scrooge once went up to Santa:
‘To see that I have changed, you may
bring these ten sacks of presents
to all the the kids in town on your way.’
Tonight you shouldn’t go
out walking in the snow,
there’s a sleigh that’s gonna blow.
All gifts were wrapped and loaded,
all of the reindeer set to fly.
Santa climbed up and ordered:
‘Onward, and up into the sky!’
Tonight you shouldn’t go
out walking in the snow,
there’s a sleigh that’s gonna blow.
Santa and sleigh ascended
with all the toys for you and me,
but he was not aware of
four pounds of finest TNT.
Tonight you shouldn’t go
out walking in the snow,
there’s a sleigh that’s gonna blow.
21/06/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Christmas Carols for the Working Class' 
Santa and the Pixie Lights
(Tune: Blowin’ in the Wind)
How many bogs must a man walk down
because his old reindeer did goof,
yes and how many miles must the reindeer fly
before he can land on a roof,
yes and how many times must the pixie lights shine
before there is definate proof?
Well, Santa found out, that’s why he’s not about,
yeah, Santa no longer is about.
How many fingers must one man have
to count what this Christmas will cost,
yes and how many times must a man look up
to see one more light in the frost,
yes and how many hours will it take him to see
that he is forever lost?
Well, Santa found out, that’s why he’s not about,
yeah, Santa no longer is about.
How many hours must a man go down
before he looks up at a frog,
yes and how many days does a body float
before it will sink in the bog,
and how many people will look for him
before getting lost in the fog?
And Santa, my child, is buried in the wild,
and Santa is buried in the wild.
19/06/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Christmas Carols for the Working Class'
Imagine
(Tune: Imagine)
Imagine there's no presents,
it's easy if you try,
no blood in narrow chimneys,
no reindeer in the sky,
imagine all the children
playing make-belief.
Imagine there's no Christmas,
it isn't hard to do,
no Rudolph and no Santa,
no Scrooge or grinches, too,
imagine all the children
sharing made-up toys.
You may say ‘Where was Santa?’,
but instead you should inspire.
Someday the kids will imagine
all the toys they desire.
Imagine your own railway,
a pool of racing cars,
to own the Horn of Plenty
or seven billion stars,
imagine all the children
getting all they want.
You may say ‘Where was Santa?’,
but instead you should inspire.
Someday the kids will imagine
all the toys they desire.
19/06/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Christmas Carols for the Working Class'
The Wedding of Jo McDaid
The playful young girls of Kilkenny
all adored the grim man who had left
their poor fathers without a penny
and their mothers of honour bereft.
A short man with a much shorter temper,
the old scrooge was the dream of each maid,
but the one to put clothes in his hamper
was none other than Jo McDaid.
On her wedding day, people got nervous,
as did Jo McDaid and her spouse;
of the guests that attended the service
only half went back to their house.
The stars of the Major Arcana
gently smiled upon those who had fled,
and Death wore a velvet bandana
the night Jo McDaid was wed.
As the newly-wed couple were tutting,
the big chandelier fell down
between the two dancers, cutting
big holes in his suit and her gown.
And soon someone found Nirvana
while looking for needle and thread,
for Death wore a velvet bandana
the night Jo McDaid was wed.
The surviving guests left the party
while mumbling ‘It’s getting quite late’,
and the best man bade them a hearty
farewell as they rushed to the gate.
The bridegroom, in shorts from Montana,
lay alone in his bridal bed,
because Death wore a velvet bandana
the night Jo McDaid was wed.
Now you know the bride’s name and how purely
her young heart kept the love that compels;
if you find out her husband’s, you surely
will be blessed by the virgins of Kells.
29-31/05/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
Golden Opportunities
When all one believes in seems lost, and one sees
not a ray of hope for great plans Fortune shuns,
Fate sometimes provides opportunities,
but these must be noticed and grasped at once.
Fort Pitt lay besieged by thousands of proud
Lenape reclaiming their land and their skies,
while inside the walls of it small pox broke out,
and soldiers and citizens died just like flies.
‘A pox on those Indians’, barked Major Trent
as the corpses lay piled in the hospital’s court,
‘for keeping us trapped’, when the message was sent
that two Indian chiefs had arrived at the fort.
‘Six nations are gathered and keen to attack,
but they all have agreed when we asked to delay
hostilities, giving you time to pack
and leave the fort and the country today.’
‘I’m grateful for your concern’, Trent replied,
‘but we’ve all that we need in the fort, and apart
from that, three armies will fight at our side,
so go and tell them that they can start.’
But since they meant well, wrote the misanthrope
in his journal, and out of respect (God forbid)
we gave them two hospital blankets. I hope
it will have the desired effect.
- It did.
8/05/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
Punch and Mistletoe
(Tune: Yellow Submarine)
In the sleigh I was airborne till I landed on the roof
where old Rudolph at full speed broke a roof tile with his hoof.
And the noise woke up the aunt of the children down below,
so we had a glass of punch underneath the mistletoe.
You can blame it on punch and mistletoe,
punch and mistletoe, punch and mistletoe.
You can blame it on punch and mistletoe,
punch and mistletoe, punch and mistletoe.
Now her name is Mrs. Claus, we are happy at the Pole,
and she tells me that she knows every Christmas takes its toll.
You can blame it on punch and mistletoe,
punch and mistletoe, punch and mistletoe.
You can blame it on punch and mistletoe,
punch and mistletoe, punch and mistletoe.
Sure the lid she’s keeping on my expenses is quite tight,
and I must stay home with her over Christmas day and night.
You can blame it on punch and mistletoe,
punch and mistletoe, punch and mistletoe.
You can blame it on punch and mistletoe,
punch and mistletoe, punch and mistletoe.
26/04/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Christmas Carols for the Working Class'
Kind of Doctor
Clara dressed up, excited
about her newest date –
what kind of doctor was he,
and would he show up late?
The restaurant was crowded,
but soon the waiter lead
them to their place. A woman
came up to him and said:
‘Thanks, doctor, for your kindness.
Now I’m in shape, and on
Sunday I will be running
the charity marathon!’
‘Who was that?’, Clara asked him
after she went away.
‘That lady is a patient,
I trashed her child today.’
18/02/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
The Ballad of Belle Gunness
Quite merry and unmarried, Brynhild
put on her dancing shoes,
went to the ball with her rich lover
and told him the good news.
He snapped, threw Brynhild on the dance floor,
shouted at her and spat
her in the face and kicked her stomach,
turned round and grabbed his hat.
She got up early one bright morning,
sneaked to his door and smiled:
his breakfast milk, spiced up with strychnine,
avenged their unborn child.
She went aboard an ocean liner
thereafter, said farewell
to Norway, travelled to the States
and changed her name to Belle.
And there she married, had four children
and ran a little store
with Mads, her spouse, and bill collectors
who lined up at the door.
Alas, the store caught fire one evening,
the flames she could not douse,
but they were paid by the insurance
and bought a bigger house.
That house burned down as well, and with the
insurance money paid
they bought an even better home
where their children laughed and played.
One day two of their little children
just after lunch turned white,
complained of stomach cramps and fever
and died that very night.
Belle cashed her children’s life insurance
and for a little sum
adopted a girl called Jennie Olsen
who gladly called her Mum.
Yet all too soon she’d spent the money;
her husband in his mild
manner announced: ‘It seems we’ll have to
trade in another child.’
But Belle had other plans. Her husband
died on the only day
when two insurance companies
were liable to pay.
She bought a farm and met Pete Gunness,
a rich man from La Porte
with his two daughters. They got married;
their marriage was quite short.
His younger girl died in Belle’s arms.
While working in the shed
to fix a chair, a sausage grinder
fell on Pete Gunness’ head.
Gust Gunness heard the news and rushed to
his brother Pete’s estate
in time to save his other niece
from a corresponding fate.
As Belle cashed in the life insurance
(the best she’s ever had),
Jennie confided in her classmate:
‘My mum has killed my dad.’
Jennie then faced the coroner’s jury
but blatantly denied
her accusation; Belle was pregnant,
and so they let it slide.
Belle then employed and became engaged to
the farmhand Ray, and when
Jennie was gone, she advertised in
the papers for a man:
Comely young widow with large farm
seeks gentleman nearby
to meet with view of joining fortunes.
No triflers need apply.
The suitors came with loads of money
to prove their wealth; they found
a massive woman in her forties
but chose to stay around.
They did succeed in joining fortunes,
of this there is no doubt:
dozens of men walked into her farmhouse,
but only one walked out.
George Anderson had gone to bed
after a glass of wine
while Ray was digging at the hog pen
and Belle was feeding swine.
But he awoke to quite a nightmare
in the middle of the night:
his sturdy hostess standing over
him in the candlelight.
With a foreboding stare, a cleaver
and a pad of chloroform
she looked to him like the Grim Reaper,
lit by a thunderstorm.
He screamed, she ran – he made his lucky
escape. Since this went wrong,
the pigs went hungry the next evening,
but not for very long.
The men kept coming and signed over
deeds and cashed cheques for Belle;
some relatives were asking questions
but disappeared as well.
Annoyed with him, she fired her farmhand
who strove to be her spouse
and told police that he had threatened
that he’d burn down her house.
She hired a farmhand and a dainty
housekeeper who would fill
Ray’s place, emptied her bank accounts
and then drew up her will.
That night the farmhand woke up smelling
a fire, ran down the stair
and called for help and kept on running
in his white underwear.
But meanwhile the entire building
was burnt right to the ground;
amongst the debris soon Belle Gunness’
remaining kids were found.
Belle’s tiny corpse lay right beside them;
they never found the head.
‘Look how the fire has shrunk her body’,
the County Sheriff said.
The gruesome story spread like wildfire,
and anyone who read
it in the L.A. Times might also
have come across this ad:
Comely young widow with large farm
seeks gentleman nearby
to meet with view of joining fortunes.
No triflers need apply.
7-8/02/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
I Did what I Did for My Deer
(Tune: I Did what I Did for Maria)
Sleigh bells. This is the last Christmas I'll ever see,
down there in purgatory they wait for me,
but I go to my Lord with no fear
cos I did what I did for my deer.
As I rode into town
with the sleigh going down,
all the chimneys were barred,
there was no one around,
for they knew of my trip
with my hand on my whip
and revenge in my heart for my deer,
my dearest departed reindeer.
Take a sleigh for a sleigh
and a spine for a spine,
and somebody must pay
for that reindeer of mine,
yes I did what I did for my deer,
I did what I did for my deer.
Carols echoed across from the workshop beneath.
There was the elf; I was grinding my teeth,
every lash cut so deep and so clear
as I took my revenge for my deer.
And he fell to the ground,
raising snow all around,
which turned red with his blood
long before he went down.
It was quick, it was grim,
made it easy on him,
which is more than he did for my deer
when he did what he did to my deer.
Take a sleigh for a sleigh
and a spine for a spine,
and somebody must pay
for that reindeer of mine,
yes I did what I did for my deer,
I did what I did for my deer.
Sleigh bells. This is the last Christmas I'll ever see,
down there in purgatory they wait for me,
but I go to my Lord with no fear
cos I did what I did for my deer.
30/01/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Christmas Carols for the Working Class'
Getting Even with the Lord
The church was empty, dark and cold as he knelt down to pray
after his dad, his wife and their five children passed away,
killed on Croagh Patrick by a fierce enormous avalanche,
dealing the sudden deathblow to the Lawless family branch.
And as he looked up from his prayer, seeking the Saviour’s grace,
he saw the crucifix and found a smirk on Jesus’ face.
So Murphy shook his fist and said: ‘You’re not a god who cures -
you’ve taken seven of my people, now I’ll take seven of yours!’
He then sought out the seven men and women in the church
who were more pious than the rest and followed this research
with studies of their weaknesses; they all could be enticed
to have their poor immortal souls taken away from Christ.
First he approached Miss Molly Dwight, a mousy teenage girl,
and told her: ‘You are beautiful! If you would only curl
your hair and wear some fancy clothes, I’m sure you’d turn the head
of every single man in town – and every single lad.’
That day Miss Molly got a perm and bleached her hazel hair,
she bought a short pink dress, and now she basks in every stare
that’s thrown her way. She holds her head up high, and she looks down
on all the other teenage girls whose colour still is brown.
He went to Mrs. Miggins who, as she did every year,
was baking cakes for charity and said: ‘Why are you here?
Your cakes and biscuits are superb - why waste your gift? I am
surprised you feed the church instead of simply selling them.’
Today old Mrs. Miggins owns a busy bakery
in town, and it’s been said that she gives nothing away for free.
She piles up money while her staff get less than minimum wage,
and any talk of charity will put her in a rage.
Then there is Mr. Brown, a man who’s friendly and polite,
a model husband with a crush on little Molly Dwight.
He had confessed to Murphy once: ‘I’d love to take her out,
but at our age we’ve got no chance’, and Murph replied: ‘No doubt.’
But one day Murphy asked the girl to play a prank on friends,
and so they passed Brown’s house at night, laughing and holding hands.
And through the window he saw Brown grow pale and clench his fist
and bang his head against the wall as he and Molly kissed.
McSharry was a misanthrope and hated dogs as well,
especially the ones that crapped at his front door. He’d yell
at anyone who came too close, he’s cross and has been known
to throw a beer can at a man or the occasional stone.
So Murphy took his favourite cow out for a walk nearby,
and at McSharry’s door he let it drop its little pie.
The landlord came out with a gun; the two did not persist,
yet he kept shooting after them but fortunately missed.
Mr. O’Malley had five kids and, as he claims, no more
encounters with his wife, for he thinks intercourse is for
this purpose only, and his wife confirms he never glanced
at other ladies, never drank and never ever danced.
But Murphy caught him after mass and pulled him to the side
and showed him Molly’s photographs. His pupils opened wide,
and with a new-found lecherous grin upon his face he said,
unaware he spoke aloud: ‘I’d love to get my hands on that!’
Then there was dainty Mrs. Walsh who hardly touched a bite;
as she would say: ‘To eat much more than needed isn’t right’.
However, she did have a weak spot for banana bread –
one trip to Mrs. Miggins, and her temperance would be dead.
So Murph invited Mrs. Walsh to biscuits and to tea.
‘I’ll have a nibble’, she complied, tried a variety
of different types like bánh chuoi, and in the little space
of minutes she had lost control and stuffed her temperate face.
To make the world a better place, Jim Carr had volunteered
to help the homeless, feed the poor and, though the others sneered,
to spread God’s word. They did forget his birthday, this is true,
but those who want to save mankind will say: ‘It’s not ‘bout you!’
‘There’s agony throughout the world, but God and church don’t care,
and you won’t make a difference; they don’t even know you’re there.’
He thought about what Murphy said, withdrawing more and more
from all his tasks, stays home and does not even answer the door.
‘You’re seven down’, Murph told the Lord when back at church. ‘You’re mince,
for your most virtuous children have committed deadly sins.
I see your smirk has disappeared – don’t ever mess with me
again!’, but then his mobile rang; it was his wife’s GP.
‘I didn’t let you know before to let your grief subside,
but I must tell you that your wife was pregnant when she died.’
Murphy sat down and caught his breath, close to a heart attack;
he looked up at the crucifix, and Jesus’ smirk was back.
23/01/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
Voodoo Snowman
(Tune: Voodoo Woman)
They call me the voodoo snowman,
and you know the reason why?
They call me the voodoo snowman,
and you know the reason why?
Well, if I stick that pin in,
you know you kids are gonna cry!
They call me the voodoo snowman,
I made a doll of Santa Claus.
They call me the voodoo snowman,
I made a doll of Santa Claus.
I tell all you kids
that you have to blame yourselves, of course.
On Christmas Eve you took my carrot
from right under my nose,
you didn’t even ask me -
if that’s the way it goes,
you’ll be sorry on Christmas Day.
You took my carrot away
to leave it out for Rudolph,
and now you kids are gonna pay!
They call me the voodoo snowman,
and you know the reason why?
Well, if I stick that pin in,
all you kids are gonna cry!
23/01/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Christmas Carols for the Working Class'
The Day of the Unborn
The day will come when research clinics,
cosmetic shops, laboratories,
sewers and landfill sites will open
and give up those who no one sees.
They’ll rise and march against the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!
A host of billions, all the children
who never saw the light of day
will be emerging from the refuse
around the world, come out to play
and wreak their vengeance on the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!
Armed with the instruments that killed them,
all those unwanted will condemn
their foe and do unto their mothers
what once their mothers did to them,
an army dreaded by the living:
unborn, undead and unforgiving!
16/01/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
The Ballad of Lady Mondegreen
‘Oh highlands mine and lowlands, tell me where you have been?
You’ve slain the Earl of Moray and Lady Mondegreen.’
King James caressed the corpses: ‘Was all my love in vain?
My world is dead, I feel like a miteside in the rain.’
Her heart was light with passion under her stiff baleen:
amongst the dappled roses walked Lady Mondegreen.
This must have been the happiest day of her carefree life,
because King James had told her that he would kill his wife.
The bonny birds were singing in oak and chestnut tree,
the sun dispersed so brightly his rays on land and sea,
the jasmine spread its fragrance, and soon she would be queen:
a spring in every step had Lady Mondegreen.
The Lady was a tomboy when no one looked, and as
she rode out in the country, she swapped her satin dress
for her beloved kilt which her lover disapproved
of in strong terms – however, the girl remained unmoved.
‘I want to meet the Lady’, the King said to his aide,
but no more in the palace, because I am afraid
the Queen might smell a rodent. Fetch Huntly, he will ride
out to the Earl of Moray where I shall meet my bride.’
Huntly received his orders: ‘Go tell the Earl I need
his house; first fetch the Lady from Rathven, and make speed!
I want her kilt torn, mangled! Then bring a candle and,
once lit, a cross. His faith will serve me well, my friend!’
The loyal Huntly saddled his horse; he was not keen
on this foul task but hurried to Lady Mondegreen.
He brought her to the Earl who obliged and took his coat,
and then he grabbed the Lady and cut her pallid throat.
He gently lit a candle and held it in one hand
while stabbing with the other the Earl, the monarch’s friend.
He cut his face severely, and what he – there’s no doubt –
did to the Lady’s body I shall not write about.
The King arrived in very high spirits at the scene
to greet the Earl of Moray and Lady Mondegreen.
‘What happened?’, he lamented as he broke down and cried.
‘I carried out your orders’, his trusted friend replied.
‘I want her killed, torn, mangled! Then bring a candle, and
one slit across his face will serve me well, my friend!’ -
‘Oh highlands mine and lowlands, tell me where you have been?
You’ve slain the Earl of Moray and Lady Mondegreen.’
15/01/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
Dealing with Fear
When I’m afraid of something, what’s
the way I deal with it?
I dress it up in polka dots
and sandals that don’t fit,
I grab its head and squeeze it in
a pink Tyrolean hat,
and then I look at it and grin:
‘I was afraid of that?’
3/01/6251 RT
(2010 CE), added to 'Horses Can Fly'
Knights in White Satin
Knights in white satin,
always shunning the day,
letters they've written
come down to a K.
They love the darkness,
wear the blood drop and cross
dress to kill ruthlessly,
and they'll show you who's boss.
And they love it,
yes they love it,
oh how they love it!
Like evil fairies
they emerge from the woods,
grown-ups that dress up
in white robes and white hoods.
Sometimes I wonder
what these terrible knights
wear underneath it -
is it stockings or tights?
And they love it,
yes they love it,
oh how they love it!
December 6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
Retrospect
We claim the thirty-two counties, but
I think we should be dropping
the subject, for with thirty-two counties
where would we do our shopping?
November 6250 RT (2009 CE)
Auf der Reeperbahn nachts um halb eins
With their last few hard-earned Deutschmarks
Gerry and John went for a stroll.
Both of their bands* had finished playing,
and they were ready to rock’n’roll.
Keen on Hamburg’s blonde girls and nightlife,
they took a walk down the Reeperbahn,
staring at the displays in the windows,
when Gerry had a plan:
‘I have heard a story from a sailor in a bar,
claiming that there’s a lot more action in a side street, not too far.
I would love to find out tonight what the hype is about:
Why not go down to Herbertstraße and check it out?’
Auf der Reeperbahn nachts um halb eins,
when the last pale street light declines,
you will see the night in a different light,
auf der Reeperbahn nachts um halb eins.
On the Reeperbahn there’s the unknown,
but you’ll never walk there alone,
and between the bars you can see the stars.
On the Reeperbahn there’s the unknown.
So they went around the corner
to a small establishment,
and there they paid the ancient doorman
forty Marks towards food and rent.
Sitting down on the couch, they waited,
but soon their prospects were looking grim,
for, compared to what came down the staircase,
a walrus would be slim.
John looked at a mountain of raw meat that seemed bizarre,
and he heard Gerry in the distance: ‘Ever seen a bus with a bra?’
They stormed out, and they slammed the door, far too scared to look back,
ran as fast as they could as they panted: ‘Well, what the heck –‘
On the Reeperbahn after half twelve
it is every man for himself.
Once they caught their breath from escaping death,
Gerry said to John after half twelve:
‘Let’s go back for our cash while alive,
we’ve got nix for it!’ - ‘Let’s take five’,
John said. ’Tell me why you did not, for I
got the fright of me bloody life!’
(*Wonder what bands they played in? Hover here.)
31/10/6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'The Rock'n'Roll Poems'
On a Boat to Mick Jagger
Mick Jagger is in the kitchen,
preparing chicken scones,
and the thunderbolts and lightning
remind him of Brian Jones.
On the other side of the estuary
we gather at the boat
to row across the water
and cut his bloody throat.
We’re on a boat to Mick Jagger,
because we think he behaved
abominably, dismissing
the guys by who he was saved.
He fired us, and if we hadn’t
drunk it already, I fear
he probably would have refused us
our $500 in beer.
He’s accusing the Angels of murder
and tells everyone that we’re sick,
just because we bumped off a nigger
who dared to bring a white chick.
He had pointed a gun at Mick Jagger
who’d be in a terrible mess
had we not subdued the assassin:
we saved his skinny ass!
Before he’ll die, we will make him
crawl on the carpet and squall,
and he’ll understand that Hell’s Angels
are not cold-blooded killers at all.
We’re rowing to Long Island,
and a storm will not delay
us from seeking revenge. ‘Move over,
get your beer belly out of the way!’
‘Look who’s talking, Odobie. Just squeeze your
fat butt on the bench, and when
you have managed to sit, reach behind me
and get me another can!’
‘Hey Obelix, go a bit further
to the left, or we’ll capsize ashore.
Has any of you ever been on
a rowing boat before?’
The others burst out laughing.
‘Let’s go, because there are signs
that the storm will get worse’, I warn them
and tell Obelix: ‘Cast off lines!’
‘I can’t reach the pier.’ – ‘Then just sever
the bloody rope, we can’t wait!’
He takes out his knife. ‘Don’t lean over!’
I shout, but a second too late.
Holding on to our cans and our weapons,
we emerge from under the boat
which delights in the certain advantage
that, other than us, it can float.
‘I’m off’, I tell the others
and shiver as I climb
out of the freezing water,
‘let’s do this some other time.’
Mick Jagger looks out of the window,
clutching his kitchen knife,
unaware the storm that is raging
has probably saved his life.
28-29/10/6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'The Rock'n'Roll Poems'
My Forty Acres
Promises. The surefire practice
to obtain without committing,
chasing dewdrops like a cactus
in the sun remains the fool.
But I shall claim what’s mine now, health permitting:
I want my forty acres and the mule!
Where the futures cast their shadows
though there is no light, they take us
captive in what should be meadows,
and the other captives drool:
‘Be patient, they will not forsake us.’
I want my forty acres and the mule!
When at last the doubting Thomas
was proved right again, and dust is
settling on another promise
where the promise masters rule,
I’ll stand before the king and call for justice:
I want my forty acres and the mule!
When we die as holy rollers
with the promise as the centre
of our being, they’ll console us:
‘We have failed you in the school
of Life, but once you leave this world, you’ll enter
a world with forty acres and a mule.’
13/10/6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
The Song of Wondering Aengus
I went out to the hazel mouse,
because a fire was in my house,
and cut and peeled a hazel tine,
and hooked a berry to my spouse;
and when white Goths there held their thing,
and Goth-like cars crashed in the dark,
I dropped the berry in a stream
and caught a little silver shark.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fiery flames,
but something rustled at the door,
and someone out there called me names:
it had become a glimmering girl
with seaweed blossom in her mouth
who rose and called me names and ran
and faded in the brightening South.
Though I am old with wondering
about nanny goat and billy goat,
I will find out where she has gone,
and seal her lips and take her throat;
and walk among long dappled grass,
and pluck till time and times are done,
the silver crayfish of the moon,
the golden crayfish of the sun.
28/08/6250 RT (2009 CE)
The First Supper
The disciples met in Joseph’s
house who had the table laid
to commemorate the selfless
sacrifice their Saviour made.
Mary stormed into the meeting
and dispersed her brethren’s gloom:
‘He has risen! He has risen!
There’s no body in the tomb!’
‘That’s great news’, said Joseph, smiling.
‘Sure, the Lord is homeward bound’,
and he sliced the meat for supper,
and he passed the chalice round.
Everyone was in good spirits,
until John looked at his fork
as he chewed and asked politely:
‘Surely you’re not serving pork?’
Simon Peter took the chalice,
drank and smashed it with a thud,
turned around and barked at Joseph:
‘That’s not wine, Joe! This is blood!’
‘Do you not remember, brethren,
what our Saviour said before?
Eat my flesh and drink my blood, and
you shall live for evermore!
‘He has given us his dogma,
we’re supposed to live by it!
Hold on, I’ll just put another
juicy femur on the spit...’
23/08/6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
The Anthropophagi
They say their God came down to Earth,
became a man and gave them
eternal life the day he died
upon the cross to save them.
How do you think they treat the man
who died for them and one day
will bring them to his paradise?
They eat him on a Sunday.
He taught his humble fellowmen
the easy-to-infer fact
that not a person in this world
except himself is perfect.
They are forgiven once a week
and sin again on Monday;
as for the man who saved their souls,
they eat him on a Sunday.
Their ancestors were primitive,
and human sacrifices
were fried or barbecued and served
with native herbs and spices.
But then came Christ, and now they are
more civilised – their fun day
is when, unseasoned and uncooked,
they eat him on a Sunday.
19/08/6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'Third Wind'
What If
From Bangor, Maine to Dallas
is a long and tiring drive,
and Aaron stepped out, feeling
more zombie than alive.
A preacher by the roadside
asked for a lift, and so
they went back in, and Aaron
switched on the radio.
They listened to Oasis
as the truck went on the road
and sang along while laughing:
‘The engine might explode!’
From the last rays of daylight
to the first rays of the moon
the two of them kept singing
to almost every tune.
They hung it in like Gunga Din
and talked of things that might have been.
Just a few miles from Memphis,
the city lights ahead
and Perseids in the distance,
Aaron slowed down and said:
‘Here’s where I live - I reckon
that you could stay to preach,
meet June and all our grandkids
and listen to her speech
about me bringing vagrants
into our home, or we
could go for drinks and music
in that honky-tonk you see,
then spend the night in the sleeper
and travel on at dawn.
What do you say?’ - The preacher
just answered with a yawn.
‘Okay’, said Aaron, ‘let’s go in
and talk of things that might have been.’
They went up to a table
where his friend John engaged
in drowning ancient sorrows
in spirits twice as aged.
‘How is it going, buddy?’ -
‘Down, just as usual’, John
replied. ‘The shop is bankrupt,
and my sixth wife is gone.’ -
‘Oh, this old fart is Jerry,
a preacher from the South,
with a big love for music
and an even bigger mouth.’
The two shook hands, and Johnny
said: ‘Great, tonight they will
give us a country singer
named Carl from Tiptonville
while we’ll play cards and I shall win
and talk of things that might have been.’
Carl went on stage and sang to
the small but eager crowd
in front of an idle piano
that was covered with a shroud.
He picked his guitar and rendered
the songs that were his own,
and after a while he admitted:
‘I hate to be alone.
Is anybody out there
who’d like to join me here?’
Aaron nudged his friend Johnny
who almost spilled his beer.
He got a guitar from the barman
(‘Make sure to bring it back!’),
and Carl announced the musician:
‘Here comes the man in black!
Let’s sing of redemption from Evil and sin
and other things that might have been.’
‘Here’s one that I have written
when I was young’, said John,
and Carl picked up the tune as
John sang of one who’d gone
to prison for a murder
and hears a train pass by,
sounding just like a freight train
himself. - ‘Say, Carl, can I
call up another singer?’ -
‘If he’s as good as you,
go right ahead!’ - ‘Hey Elvis,
come here and join the crew!’ -
‘Elvis?’, asked Jerry, puzzled,
as Aaron rose to claim
the next guitar. He answered:
‘Aaron’s my middle name.’
His magic voice caused heads to spin
and think of things that might have been.
Cellphones came out. More people
came in and filled the place.
A man went up and, holding
a flashlight to his face,
took a close look at Aaron.
Then, slowly turning back,
he shouted to his girlfriend:
‘He really isn’t black!’
Jerry checked the piano.
‘Does this still work today?’
Not waiting for an answer,
he took the shroud away
and pounded on the keyboard
with elbows, fists and arms,
and young girls by the dozen
fell victim to his charms.
He watched their frenzy with a grin
and dreamt of things that might have been.
The guitar men had bourbon
and beer after the show
while Jerry played another:
‘I’ll be the last to go!’
The manager approached them:
‘I think if you had met
some forty years ago now,
such a superb quartet
could have sold a million pesos.’
John smiled: ‘I hope it’s cash.’
‘There’s an idea’, said Aaron.
‘If we could start afresh,
we all could be world-famous.
I’m sure we got the make
of stars if chance would only
have given us a break.’ -
‘And I suppose you’ll fill us in
on all the things that might have been?’
‘Let’s say there was a producer
in Memphis who was keen
to find young artists for the
developing music scene.’ -
‘How about Carl and Jerry?’,
asked John. - ‘If there had been
a place like that, I surely
would have travelled’, Carl threw in.
‘Me too’, said Jerry. ‘One time
I came across your town
on my way to the Grand Ole Opry
where they have turned me down.’ -
Johnny could not believe it.
‘You really went that far?
What was it that they told you?’ -
‘To get myself a guitar.’
They drank their whiskey, beer and gin,
inventing things that might have been.
‘Let’s call that guy Sam Phillips.’ -
‘Let’s say he also ran
a self-recording service
to find those gifted men
too shy to go for auditions.’ -
‘We’d be every teenagers dream
and tour the world, drive the fellas
wild and make women scream.’ -
‘And all of today’s musicians
would know the songs we sung’,
said Carl as they left the building.
‘Of course, we might die young’,
mused Aaron, and the preacher
grew pale. ‘Not all, you know’,
he added to console him,
‘you’d be the last to go!’
They watched the night sky wistfully,
imagining things that may well be.
16/08/6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'The Rock'n'Roll Poems'
The Taoiseach’s New Clothes
or
How the Celtic Tiger Became Extinct
A long time ago, when the Taoiseach
once again didn’t know what to do,
his advisors came up with an answer
and brought him to Dublin Zoo.
At a cage which he thought was empty
they stopped. ‘Now here’s our surprise:
he’s called the Celtic Tiger
and can only be seen by the wise.
‘Just look at his beautiful pelage,
his clear eyes and strong sturdy neck -
you will see that in no time or faster
he’ll get things on this isle back on track.’
And people came from the four corners
of the world to see and festoon
the Tiger that came out of nowhere
and was to return there quite soon.
‘How he’s grinding that bone like a cupcake!’ -
‘My gosh, what a beautiful brute!’ –
‘Watch, he’s dancing the tarantella
in a skirt on two paws; ain’t he cute?’
And the Tiger grew bigger and stronger,
and soon he came of age.
‘He’s been growing a lot’, said the keeper,
‘and he’ll need a bigger cage.’
‘He is right’, the advisors admitted.
‘I think I will give it a miss’,
said the Taoiseach. ‘He’s only a keeper,
what the hell would he know about this?’
But then, on the following morning,
the keeper was hanging his head,
and he went to the Taoiseach and told him:
‘I’m afraid the Tiger is dead!’
‘That can’t be’, cried the Taoiseach and hurried
to the cage where he asked for the key
and leaned over his pet and caressed him:
‘Quick, bring me an AED!’
The keeper looked slightly bewildered
and lit a cigarette:
‘With his head being cut off so neatly,
I can’t see much point in that.’
The advisors soon found a solution:
‘If you wear his fur as your new
cloak I’m sure you’ll convince all your voters
that his power has passed on to you!’
So the Taoiseach called tailors and watched them
sew, gather, embroider and soak
it in spirit of turpentine, anxious
to try out his amazing new cloak.
He first wore it to Mass on a Sunday
where some loyal supporters did perch
on the wall, donned their heads and saluted
as the Taoiseach entered the church.
But as he sat down for the service,
a girl pulled her mother aside:
‘Look Mum, the Taoiseach is naked!’,
and everyone laughed till they cried.
8/06/6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'
Eddie Cochran’s Guitar
You may have noticed I’m a Gretsch:
when Eddie saw me on the rack,
he knew at once we were a match,
and, putting dog ears on my neck,
created something strong whose soul
would change the course of Rock’n’Roll.
Backstage in Melbourne I was shared
as Little Richard picked my strings.
Then, on a trip, he got plain scared
of Sputniks and of burning wings;
Rock Music’s most flamboyant man
turned homeward to be born again.
While he and Eddie were on tour,
young Buddy Holly played a song
on me and told him with his pure
shy smile: ‘I couldn’t tune that long,
for the entire venue rocks
the sec my Strat’s out of the box!‘
Then Ritchie Valens took a loan
of me for starring in a scene
of Go Johnny Go (which wasn’t shown
while he still lived), and with a keen
performance rocked and rolled the hearts
of diners waiting for their tarts.
After the Day the Music Died,
Ed sang Three Stars in memory
of those who crashed but was denied
to see the dirge released as he
kept breaking into tears for his
good friends he and the world would miss.
Their tour of the UK drew near.
Ed told Gene Vincent: ‘Let me fetch
my babe - I always longed to hear
Be-Bop-A Lula on my Gretsch.’
Gene sang his anthem on the night
before they left to catch their flight.
In London, with a happy smile,
a little boy walked up to Ed
and told him how he loved his style.
Ed talked to him, and when he said:
‘You want to carry my guitar?’,
Marc Bolan brought me to the car.
After a gig a fight broke out.
A crazy fan who wouldn’t yield
ran up to Eddie with a shout
and knelt in front of us to shield
me from the mob; it’s such a shame
he was too wise to touch my frame.
In Bristol Ed approached a lad:
‘You’ve been at all our concerts. Who
are you?’ – ‘George Harrison’, he said,
I want to play guitar like you!’
So Eddie showed him a little trick
and found that George was learning quick.
After the show a cab was hired
to bring us back. The driver sped
while Gene and Eddie’s girl admired
a few new tunes he played like mad.
He held me in triumphant bliss:
‘Now here’s a hit. Listen to this!’
The taxi crashed, the world did pause.
The young police cadet Dave Dee
held on to me to see I was
returned to Eddie’s family –
but in the meantime, bar by bar,
he taught himself to play guitar.
Today my powers are the same,
though currently I’m locked away:
I’m resting in the Hall of Fame,
where I am waiting for the day
when someone else, by touching me,
will find success and tragedy.
13-19/04/6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'The Rock'n'Roll Poems'
Counting Rhyme
One, two, three, four,
who is knocking at the door?
Five, six, seven, eight,
someone who is far too late.
Nine, ten, eleven, twelve,
he can open it himself.
6/02/6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'Horses Can Fly'
Tree
Like a windswept old tree in the wilderness,
with his scraggy long arms in the sky,
with his bark a bazaar for the elements
and his roots undisclosed to the eye,
Who was guarding his plain throughout centuries
when our forefathers crawled from the caves
and established the rule of humanity
and first put the dead into graves,
We all stand in this world with our loneliness
for some decades with nothing to do,
to be cut with a chainsaw in wintertime,
and to burn for an hour or two.
January 6250 RT
(2009 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'
This Christmas, as every other, working class parents in Ireland and elsewhere are faced with the terrible task of telling their children why Santa can't come. These new Christmas songs may help them understand.
Stuck in the Chimney
(Tune: I’ll Put You Together Again)
When you don’t get any toys,
when you feel Christmas is over,
do not curse Santa – he was here all right
but got stuck in the chimney last night.
Yeah, Santa got stuck in the chimney last night,
got stuck in the chimney last night,
with his big belly, he found it too tight
and got stuck in the chimney last night.
His sleigh did crash on the roof,
and so did most of his reindeer.
With his large sack he came down, but not quite
and got stuck in the chimney last night.
Yeah, Santa got stuck in the chimney last night,
got stuck in the chimney last night,
with his big belly, he found it too tight
and got stuck in the chimney last night.
Now Santa Claus is no more,
neither the presents he carried.
I’m sure he put up a hell of a fight
but got stuck in the chimney last night.
Yeah, Santa got stuck in the chimney last night,
got stuck in the chimney last night,
with his big belly, he found it too tight
and got stuck in the chimney last night.
I think ‘twas wrong that the fire we did light
with him stuck in the chimney last night.
9/12/6249 RT
(2008 CE), added to 'Christmas Carols for the Working Class'
Santa’s Retirement Notice
(Tune: Raindrops keep falling on my head)
Reindeer keep crawling on my head,
but that doesn't mean that I will soon get out of bed,
Santa Claus is tired.
Those reindeer are crawling on my head, they keep crawling...
So I just did me some talking to myself,
and I said I’d do it like my favourite Christmas elf,
sleeping on the job.
Those reindeer are crawling on my head, they keep crawling...
But there's one thing I know:
the lists ye send to cheat me won't defeat me,
it won't be long till Rudolph brings my tea to greet me.
Reindeer keep crawling on my head,
but that doesn't mean that I will soon get out of bed,
Christmas ain’t for me,
yet I'm never gonna stop the feast by complaining.
Because I'm free,
no more presents for ye...
November 6249 RT
(2008 CE), added to 'Christmas Carols for the Working Class'
At the Banks of the Garavogue
At dusk, when the shadows are falling
under street lights in Doorly Park,
you pause as you hear someone calling
your name through the trees in the dark;
turning round, you will notice the funny
physique of a pitiful rogue
who asks for a smoke and some money
at the banks of the Garavogue.
The wind picks up breath, and you shiver
besides the stream and stand still
near the islet astern of the river
where the waters approach from Lough Gill.
A boatman is cursing the weather
and casts out his homemade drogue
as the ominous storm clouds gather
o’er the banks of the Garavogue.
In the distance you hear the fright’ning
thunder rolling to mark his domain,
accompanied by the first lightning.
In seconds you’re drenched by the rain,
and as the thunder comes nigh, go
as quick as you can in your brogue,
and return to the shelter of Sligo
from the banks of the Garavogue.
13-15/07/6249 RT
(2008 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'
Pirate Song
We love each gale, we love each breeze,
the ocean and the shore,
and we have sailed the Seven Bays
from Glinsk to Mullaghmore.
We make all sailors’ dreams come true
who wish to face their fears
and bury them together like
congeneal buccaneers.
Tonight around Killaspug Point,
tomorrow to Strandhill,
thereafter to Culleenamore –
we won’t be standing still!
We kill and maim who we can find
for profit and for fun,
and if we lose some of our own,
there’s naught that can be done.
And when we sail with fellow thugs
who love to rob and shoot,
like Captain Longarm and his crew,
we cheat and keep the loot.
And when the setting sun illumes
the men who lost their lives,
we turn the vessel and set sail,
returning to our wives.
We count our blessings and our spoils
from those unlucky ships
and split it almost fairly with
a shanty on our lips.
We sing about the many things
that pirates sing about
when they conclude a hard night’s work
over a glass of stout.
October 6248 RT
(2007 CE) + 3/05/6249 RT
(2008 CE), added to 'The Pirate Songs of Rosses Point'
Kadambari
She is the lady of my thoughts.
In all this planet’s towns and ports
there is no woman I could find
so captivating heart and mind.
Her hair is blacker than the crows
Chowpatty lodges, and it flows
with mystically enchanting grace
around the world’s most comely face.
Her eyes are darker than the night,
and yet their sparkle is so bright
that all the rocks she looks upon
turn into temples of the Sun.
Her touch is softer than the kiss
of butterflies in vernal bliss,
who rest upon your arm and then
playfully fly away again.
Her smile and presence give me wings.
If I knew girls at all the kings’,
sultans’ and maharajahs’ courts:
she’ll be the lady of my thoughts!
March 6249 RT
(2008 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'
In the Days of Seamus McLaughlin
In the days of Seamus McLaughlin
we would wait in the back of his bar
till the man himself was descending
to sit with us and tune his guitar.
And he'd carefully stick his burning
cigarette between peghead and strings,
and soon his plectrum was flying
like a hummingbird spreading his wings.
Every night was a musical journey,
and through space and time we would fly,
from the Hotel California
to the Fields of Athenry.
And he'd pass his guitar on to others
who wanted to play. We'd hear songs
sung in Basque, Swahili and Irish
at our cheerful singalongs.
Towards the end he would ask the young poet
for his Ghost Riders in the Sky
(or at least the few lines he remembered),
and as the evening rushed by,
he might call for a poetry reading,
so the pipe would be put aside
as the writer took out his collection
of poems and gladly complied.
Close to after the closing hour
two Gardai wandered in one night,
and, thinking the place would be raided,
Seamus' guests got a little fright.
But they went to the counter and ordered -
they had only come in to stay
for a Guinness, went back to their squad car
and quietly drove away.
And on Tuesdays the Trad band were playing -
the guitars quickly followed the call
of the bodhrán, and soon they were joined by
the most sensual flautist of all,
by the fiddles and pipes; the musicians
and the punters got caught by the beat,
and, with or without taking notice,
everybody was moving their feet.
When the music was over, we chatted
about neighbours or life's hectic mode,
till the bell rang out for last orders:
one more smoke, and a pint for the road.
Then we slowly got up and returned to
a world of a different kind -
in the days of Seamus McLaughlin
we went home with a song on our mind.
When the Euro came in, I once mentioned
that I needed a mobile; with perked
ears he said he'd sell his for a tenner,
and I gave him ten Euros. He smirked:
'When I said it was yours for a tenner,
I meant Pound'. - I just should have known,
so I gave him another two eighty
and owned my first mobile phone.
And as soon as we laughed at first rumours
of a ludicrous smoking ban,
Seamus sold his wee pub, and we'll never
come together like that again.
Today he is playing at weddings
or in pubs round the Point, and I meet
him in town now and then when I'm shopping,
and we stop for a chat in the street.
Then we talk of the present and future,
how things should be and how they are;
but when I meet one of the others
who used to drink in his bar,
we both, caught in a spell of nostalgia,
dig up many a memory
from the days of Seamus McLaughlin,
when life was the way it should be.
January/February 6249 RT
(2008 CE), added to 'The Heidelberg Files'
