Another Christmas Tale

(to the tune of “Once in royal David’s city)

.

Roy was worshipped down at City,
All the girls would call him “Stud.”
Strong and brave, he showed no pity,
He was really very good.
Saintly in his will to win,
Anger was his only sin.

His manager was tough as leather,
Lee was decades in the game.
Never shy to shout out whether
Certain people were to blame.
Black and white and old and young,
All would fear Lee’s lethal tongue.

After one quite horrid disaster,
Roy came in for some abuse.
Never were words spat out faster,
Lee’s old face became bright puce.
Roy remained serene and calm,
Then drove to his manager’s farm.

He took a tractor from a stable
And drove to a cattle shed.
First the side wall, then the gable,
Tumbled down around his head.
Fearsome bedlam did abound,
As the shed crashed to the ground.

Well, the press were in the clover,
This was really front page news.
Was Roy’s stay at City over?
Journalists all gave their views.
What will all the upshot be?
Can the club placate mad Lee?

Talks began between the parties,
Snow fell down on many lands.
Rumours scattered round like Smarties
Flung from short bad-tempered hands.
City thought The Stud must leave,
His one sin held no reprieve.

Then as Christmas turkeys roasted,
Came a breakthrough at the death.
Notices were quickly posted,
Phone calls made with panting breath.
“Compromise!” shrieked out the news,
Headline writers sought their muse –

“One-sin Roy’ll stay with City –
Stud’ll owe Lee cattle shed.”

A Familiar Refrain

The eyes of my teddy have fallen out,
My brand new football is flat.
My clockwork tractor is up the spout,
And my Smarties were robbed by the cat.
I’ve lost my Subbuteo football fan,
My Jordan sweatshirt got torn,
Daddy trod on my Action Man
And it’s still only Christmas morn.

Who Killed Cock Robin?

“I,” said the Stork.
“I popped his cork.
I killed Cock Robin.”

“I,” said the Owl.
“With my little towel,
I killed Cock Robin.”

“I,” said the Jay.
“I made him pay.
I killed Cock Robin.”

“I,” said the gannet.
“With a large piece of granite.
I killed Cock Robin.”

“I,” said the Crow.
“I broke his toe.
I killed Cock Robin.”

“I,” said the Finch.
“It was a cinch.
I killed Cock Robin.”

“I,” said the Chough.
“He thought he was tough.
I killed Cock Robin.”

“I,” said the Coot.
“I stuck in the boot.
I killed Cock Robin.”

“I,” said the pheasant.
“Though it was unpleasant.
I killed Cock Robin.”

“I,” said the wren.
“And I’d do it again.
I killed Cock Robin.”

“Enough!” said the Quail.
“You’re all going to jail
For killing Cock Robin.”

Whatever Happened to the Millennium Clock?

The Millennium Clock. Now, does that ring a bell?
The unfortunate “Time in the Slime”?
Oh, spare me a moment in which I will tell
Of a wicked and dastardly crime.

A long time ago, back in old ninety nine,
The people of Dublin were reckoned
To warrant a timepiece encrusted with brine
That counted down each shagging second.

What joy! What happiness! What ecstatic bliss!
What wonderful cause for elation!
A bloody great clock in a river of piss,
All thanks to the brave Corporation.

At O’Connell Bridge people queued up for days
To watch the red seconds descending,
And, though it was viewed through a yellowy haze,
The queues for it seemed never-ending.

Problems and troubles were all washed away,
When faced with this wondrous invention,
And as the big numbers got smaller each day,
We got pre-millennial tension.

But then, one fine morn, the damn thing wasn’t there,
The Liffey was no longer ticking,
Though people continued to look down and stare
And Japanese cameras kept clicking.

Oh, well I remember that terrible day
That Dublin’s proud timepiece was taken.
Grown men found it tricky to keep tears at bay,
So lost and forlorn and forsaken.

Old men hugged each other, and little girls wept,
With consummate grief and self-pity,
And all through the afternoon, dark rumours swept
Through the north and the south of the city.

The media circus surrounded Wood Quay,
Demanding immediate answers,
And, scenting a story, reported with glee
That the men in the Corpo were chancers.

At length came a spokesman, along with a brief,
Imploring us all not to panic.
The clock hadn’t sunk; there was no need for grief –
It was hardly the shagging Titanic.

The Liffey was manky, he went on to say,
Exceedingly grubby and dirty.
It needed some purification but they
Didn’t get enough money from Bertie.

The Millennium Clock, he imparted with force,
Had been subject to regular screening,
And, due to the slime, as a matter of course,
They had taken it off for a cleaning.

The people all breathed a huge sigh of relief
That everything seemed as it oughta.
And all throughout Dublin, there was the belief
That this explanation held water.

The Millennium Clock never surfaced again,
The people forgot all about it.
The story went round that they’d cleaned it in vain,
And no-one had reason to doubt it.

But now is the time for the truth to be sold,
No need for misrepresentation.
For it was a pup that the city was sold,
With meticulous prevarication.

Two men, late at night, from the edge of the quays,
Pushed a dinghy out into the river.
The cold, icy breeze made the older man sneeze,
And the younger one gave a sharp shiver.

They paddled away by the light of the moon,
Though both of them chattered and trembled.
They worked very carefully, and very soon
The Millennium Clock was dissembled.

They floated downstream to the Custom House Dock
Where a black hi-ace van with a skylight
Stood waiting to whisk the two men and the clock
Away into Dublin’s bleak twilight.

The Corpo decided, Jack Nicholson-wise,
That the truth was too awful to handle,
And so they concocted a tissue of lies
In order to stifle a scandal.

The mood of the mob was uncertain to gauge.
Imagine the wild accusations!
Far better the lie that would dissipate rage,
And so, the mundane explanations.

But, hold on a minute, I hear you butt in,
How come only you know the truth?
Well, that’s not quite true, I reply with a grin –
There’s my son, a remarkable youth.

We live in a semi in Dublin’s North Wall,
I oftentimes wish it was bigger.
But when we admire our big clock on the wall,
I find it so hard not to snigger.

New Year

New Year,
New fear,
New resolutions,
New dissolutions,
New aspirations,
New complications,
New ambitions,
New conditions,
New relations,
New temptations,
New impressions,
New repressions,
New expressions,
New depressions,
New salvation,
New damnation,
New rapport,
New clear war.

Newgrange Me Arse!

The winter solstice night was nearly finished,
The sun was making signals in the east,
The power of the darkness was diminished,
The terror of the longest night decreased.

I sat there in the kitchen eating cornflakes,
The kitchen drapes were parted just a crack,
I vaguely heard the rasping cry of corncrakes
Heralding the dawning out the back.

Then suddenly the sun’s first rays appeared
Over Paige’s ironmonger’s store,
And something happened that was really weird,
Something I had never seen before.

A shaft of light shot through the parted curtain,
And hit my mural of three ducks in flight,
I turned the light off, for I was quite certain
Darkness would augment this wondrous sight.

The first green duck was all illuminated,
A leading light in each and every sense,
I bit my lip, transfixed and fascinated,
The atmosphere electrified and tense.

Then, as the sun peeped higher over Paige’s,
The light did seem to travel down and right,
Inch by inch it crept in tiny stages
Until the second duck came into sight.

I barely breathed in hope and expectation,
For nature still had not revealed her all,
Not satisfied with this illumination,
Remorselessly it travelled down the wall.

I sensed the third and final duck get nearer.
Excited, I could hardly bear to look.
At first, a beak and then a head grew clearer,
And then the soaring body of the duck.

Three ducks shone forth from out the inky blackness,
Haloed in the winter solstice sun.
And though they stayed quite stationary and quackless,
They shouted that the longest night was done.

The next few days, just as the sun was dawning,
I waited for the sight to reappear.
But the only time it happened was that morning
Of the Druids’ ending of the year.

What men were these who built this humble dwelling
Way back in August nineteen ninety three?
What astronomic secrets were they telling,
These fabled architects of destiny?

The First Noel

Noel, Noel,
Noel, Noel.
Born is the King of Israe.