"Word associations, slurred enunciations, absurd approximations.."
Cathy White and Peter Hanly in Improbable Frequency.
Photo, Ros Kavanagh.
Be Careful Not To Patronise The Irish
- from Improbable Frequency
Be careful not to patronise the Irish
Good grief, you'll cry, that's hardly my intent
Nevertheless, when he's inclined
Paddy's mind is so designed
He'll go and find offence where none was meant
No matter how one tries to get along
Unselfishly proclaiming Éire's undisputed charms,
A simple mention, en passant
Of drinking, fighting and maudlin song,
Suddenly one is in the wrong,
And Paddy's up in arms.
In Dublin, a young diplomat can realise all his wishes,
Provided he's not overly ambitious
They speak the language, after a fashion
Haven't even begun to ration
Try the beef, it really is delicious.
A spy, now that must be a lark,
Cloak and dagger after dark,
Derring-do and gunplay, one suspects?
- Well, not in my particular line
Cryptographers are more inclined
To leafing through impenetrable texts.
Well, be careful not to patronise the Irish
They take umbrage at the kindliest advice
Though it's clearly for his benefit,
Dear old Paddy's having none of it
When you tell him a little decorum might be nice
It's happened to me, just once or twice.
I suppose they've had their woes,
But all the whining, what's the point?
They could be British if they chose,
There's still that option, heaven knows,
But mention that and Paddy's nose
Is further out of joint.
(Is further out of joint,
Is further out of joint
Is further out of Paddy's nose
Be careful not to parish woes
Is further for the far the for
The far the fore the rout the rout...)
I couldn't help but notice,
Did you mutter something there?
As though you disagreed with my analysis, perhaps?
- Not at all.
What was it then, a form of silent prayer,
Or symptoms of a nervous collapse?
Sorry, it's an occupational hazard, I'm afraid,
An involuntary reflex, a tic of the trade
I hear a phrase and have to chase it down the rabbit-hole
Lips flip relentlessly beyond my control
Freewheeling dumbly through word associations,
Slurred enunciations,
Absurd approximations
Hurdy-gurdy slow rotations
That spool and unwind
As the gears grip and grind
In the treadmills of my mind
Repetition, repetition, variation, repetition
Patiently preparing for a spark of intuition
Or hoping that a daisy-chain of tenuous links
Will magically unravel the riddle of the Sphynx,
So yes, it's a prayer, and a mental condition,
And a sign outside my head that says 'gone fishin'',
But while I'm on my mission here, I need hardly say
That I won't be doing anything to give the game away
I'll blend right in, like you've evidently done,
I'll be ever so diplomatic and polite to everyone
And though I may be horrified by how the country's run,
I'll be careful not to patronise the Irish
Yes, be careful not to patronise the Irish,
Though they don't object to patronising you.
Is it smugness, or insurgency that makes them say 'emergency'?
I feel it lacks the urgency of World War Two
Just remember dear old Blighty and the spirit of the Blitz
And when Paddy's claim to nationhood is getting on your tits
Then remember that we're brits, and we're better than these shits,
But be careful not to patronise the -
- Ah, bejapers and begorrah
Careful not to patronise the -
- Where the fuck is Glocca Maura?
Careful not to patronise -
- Or otherwise antagonise
Be careful not to patronise -
- I'm doing it again, surprise, surprise,
Be careful not to patronise
The bloody Irish.
Louis Lovett and Clare Barrett in The Train. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
The Miracle of Creation
- from The Train
When God divided dark from night,
The first day of creation
He hoped that this would be alright
In Ireland's estimation
And when upon the second day
He made the skies and oceans
He hoped the Irish wouldn't say
The Lord was getting notions.
The miracle of creation
Is a most instructive tale
The animals were all designed
With reproductive parts, youll find
The bull (the bull), the cow (the cow)
The buck (the buck) the hind (the hind)
But when it came to humankind
He only made a male.
He made the trees, the moon and sun
He made the birds and fishes
In just a week the job was done
In keeping with his wishes
And so the human race began
According to our teachers
He took some clay and made a man
With all the standard features.
So God and man had mighty fun
And merriment and laughter
Till Adam says we need someone
To cook, and clean up after.
The very thing, The Lord replied
One word and it's decided
And with a bone from Adam's side
A woman was provided
The miracle of creation
Is a most instructive tale,
Thus spoke The Lord as we were taught
Behold and see what I have wrought
A lovely little gift I brought
The cook and cleaner that you sought
Although she's just an afterthought
Who'll never quite be male.
The Lord declares, I hope you find
She gives you satisfaction
But keep in mind that womankind
Are prone to cause distraction
And when you gaze with lusty eyes
While she serves up your dinner
You must be strong and realise
That she's the dirty sinner.
The miracle of creation
Is a most instructive tale
That's how the story always ran
That since the day the world began
The laws of God were made for man
So try to do the best you can
And patiently accept your fate
And bow your head to bear the weight
Of condescension, guilt and hate
Imposed on you
By church
And state.
The Inner Specialness of Me
- from Improbable Frequency
Lately I've been feeling like I'm going nowhere
Just doing the same old rounds
The Department of Local Government
Isn't nearly as exciting as it sounds
Not for a girl who loves continental novels,
Black coffee, any new experience
And longs to be borne aloft on fiery wings of passion
Though of course, not in a smutty sense.
Then I saw him in the restaurant and looked into his eyes
I knew straight away he wasn't like the other guys
He has a soul that's sensitive enough to recognise
The inner specialness of me,
It's a pity that he's English but you can't have everything
And though it may be early to be thinking of a ring
Who knows what might happen if I can only make him see
The inner specialness of me.
Lisa Lambe in Improbable Frequency. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
Louis Lovett and Clare Barrett in The Train. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
Written by a Man
- from The Train
First I was a lovely wife,
Picturesque and pensive
Showed no signs of inner life
Beyond the mildly inoffensive
Now I must assert myself
And break out if I can,
Which isn't easy for a woman
Written by a man.
I feel like I'm not quite complete
The lines come willy-nilly,
And when they rhyme, they fit the metre
Rather... uneas-ily,
My character has turned three-sixty
Since the play began
So I'm just one more dizzy woman
Written by a man.
How hard can it be?
Did I beam down from Planet X?
Why can't I be me?
Why must I represent my sex?
Don't idealise,
Don't sentimentalise my plight,
And keep it moving, guys,
You've got another verse to write.
Now I need to change my ways,
It seems the choice is slender
When I see the old clichés
That signify my gender
Tragic victimhood's no good,
But still, it's better than
A feisty, sassy, gutsy chick
Assembled by a man.
You'll Write Something Bloody Good One Day
- from Improbable Frequency
Betjeman:
Tell me, how's your funny column?
So amusing, never solemn,
Quite a rapier wit you've got,
Parochial, yes, but gosh, why not?
Keep at it, you keep beavering away
I'm going to stick my neck out here and say
That you'll write something bloody good one day.
Myles:
Thank you, I'd be very flattered,
If I thought your judgement mattered
Still and all, congratulations
Bear in mind not just your patience
But your awesome limitations,
I'd be churlish if I didn't say,
That you'll write something bloody good one day.
Betjeman:
Satire wielded with precision,
Erudite and wicked vision,
Shame it's always undercut
With feeble puns and schoolboy smut
For your sake I hope and pray
That you won't fritter all your gifts away,
And you'll write something bloody good one day.
Myles:
Oh, how winsome, oh, how wistful,
Oh, the clichés by the fistful,
Oh, the simpering vignettes
Of life in leafy Middlesex,
Still, I think it's fair to say
The law of averages will have its way
And you'll write something readable one day.
Rory Nolan in Improbable Frequency. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
Unresolved
- from Improbable Frequency
Probabilities hang in the air,
Unresolved
If I reach out, will you still be there,
Unresolved
Do we wind up our song on a minor chord,
The lyric in search of that final word
Unresolved
So many questions remain,
Unresolved
Recurring again and again,
Unresolved
Like particle wave duality,
And the nature of Irish neutrality,
Unresolved
Our neighbourly rancour goes on,
Unresolved
Much like it's been all along,
Unresolved
We see in each other our own baser traits,
And the mutual awkwardness escalates,
Unresolved
I want you, whatever may be
Unresolved
I'll stay with you happily
Unresolved
So let's take a gamble on you and me
Unlikely bedfellows eternally
Unresolved.
Sarah Greene and Rory Nolan in Peer Gynt. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
In the Hall of the Mountain King
- from Peer Gynt
The Mountain King:
Cool your oul' blood
It's time we were cute
And we mustn't get over-excited
You know how we're slighted, whatever we do
Times have been hard, but then, out of the blue
Along comes a neighbourly hand, and says you,
We'd be awful uncivil to bite it.
Besides, he's a strapping young buck of a lad,
No obvious flaws, or nothing too bad,
Only one head, that's the latest oul' fad,
It's a bit of a shame, but herself is the same.
The three-headed troll is gone right out of date
And even a two-heads is hard to locate
And the heads that they have aren't usually great
You seen them, they barely make one head between them.
So you have a graw for my little princess?
Peer Gynt:
Your girl and your kingdom, perfect, yes.
Sarah Greene, Will O'Connell and Hilary O'Shaughnessy in Peer Gynt. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
Myles' Song
- from Improbable Frequency
Barbed wire geansai'd Nietzsches
Making speeches into their jars
It's all me arse
And furthermore
Whatever whore
Pulled this pint
Is behind the wrong kind of bars.
Can't a man have a drink and think
Of perplexing conundrums and bicycles stolen
And swollen footnotes in various styles
Just file it all under 'too clever by Myles'.
Can't a man have a drink in this town
But some clown of the voluble sort
Starts to talk about 'ort'
And how the words
Of 'At Swim-Two-Birds'
Are rather like Joyce's
Myriad voices
Oh, God, can't a man have a drink?
Can't a man have a drink without hearing them say
This isn't his first or his last one today
Failing that, can't a man have a drink anyway
Oh, God can't a man have a drink?
Sweet mother of God, can't a man have a drink
And not have to think
Of weeping cows
Murderous rows
Priestly vows
And the tiny, tiny screams
Of eternity trapped in a book
And atoms colliding and running amok
And bastard ventriloquists working in teams
Can't a man have a drink, though it certainly seems
Diversions have been taken
To extremes.
Special Agent Betjeman
- from Improbable Frequency
MI5 said fetch a man
But not some wretched tetchy man
For espionage can stretch a man
But Betjeman he just might do.
Betjeman, he just might do
Evening Willis, evening, Lucy,
Welcome, Mr Faraday
Just received a rather juicy
Letter from the IRA
Letter from the IRA
They wanted to assassinate me
Till they read my lovely verse
Now it seems they venerate me,
Tell me Willis, which is worse?
Tell me Willis, which is worse?
He's Betjeman, John Betjeman
He's everybody's friend
Most theatrical of agents
This side of the West End.
Life's alarms and death's reverses
Seem immeasurably sweeter
Rendered into silly verses
In a silly, bouncy metre
So with spies, the same applies,
Anoperative is less alarming
If despite his stealth and lies
He's silly, bouncy, big and charming.
Betjeman, John Betjeman,
The natives think he's great,
Betjeman, John Betjeman,
Our man in the Free State,
Could mother nature etch a man
Or Leonardo sketch a man
More affable than Betjeman,
His drinks are on the slate.
Waft of Woodbine, pints of porter,
Pubs fill up and come alive
Could I. Would I, Should I ought to
Send some names to MI5?
Far from flak, ack-ack and klaxons,
How I love these Georgian squares,
Soft the rain and softer accents,
Spill the beans all unawares
To Betjeman, John Betjeman
Who else would have the guile?
Not some Turk or Chechnyan,
No they'd stand out a mile
But Betjeman, you betcha can
Rely on good old Betjeman
Special agent Betjeman
Can do the job in style.
Rory Nolan and Karen Ardiff in Peer Gynt. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
Peer Fells a Tree
- from Peer Gynt
You're a hard old tree, boy,
But damn the good that that'll do you now.
Chainmail you're wearing,
I'll be tearing that an' all
So go on, wave your bough, boy
You know you're gonna be falling anyhow
Oh, you don't like that, do you not?
Well, tough,
You can frown, you can glower
You'll be bowing to my power soon enough.
Open up your eyes, it's a tree, boy,
Not a warrior in disguise
Just a twisted old pine that you can't even shift
And the chopping is a curse
And you dream and you drift
And the stories and the lies
Only make it much worse
You're an outlaw now, boy
Hunted down and on the run from everyone
Your Mammy won't be here to cook your dinner anymore
And if you want some food you've got to eke it out, seek it out,
Pull it down and drag it from the woods and the streams
Kindling, clothing, kill the deer, keep the skin,
Build a place to shelter in
Split the rocks and haul 'em in,
Saw -
The hard old timber into beams.
Grand big towers with a weather vane an' all,
Rising up above the roof, beautiful and tall,
I'll carve a mermaid on the gable
Fishy tail beneath her navel
On the locks I need some brass
Really ought to get some glass
And passers-by will stop and stare
What's that twinkling on the hillside there?
Lies, more stories and lies.
You're an outlaw now, boy, on the run and lost,
A bark-covered shack will do to keep out the frost,
There, look at him standing, starting to sway,
One good kick - he's crashing all the way.
Peter Hanly, Cathy White and Lisa Lambe in Improbable Frequency. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
The Red Bank Restaurant
- from Improbable Frequency
There's a place where the barman will smile
If you drink yellow beer and you whisper "Sieg Heil"
Not that we're Nazis, we just like the style
Down at the Red Bank Restaurant
Come on inside, find a corner and nestle
You don't have to be blue-eyed or blonde
Provided you sing a few bars of Horst Wessel
Down at the Red Bank Restaurant
Down at the Red Bank Restaurant
Sing ho, for the schnapps and the linden tree
Down at the Red Bank Restaurant
And Ireland's opportunity
Although we're not Nazis
We're not bloody patsies
For Churchill and Roosevelt to tease and to taunt
So we'll stick to our guns
And we'll drink to the huns
At the Red Bank Restaurant.
There's a place you're sure to hear songs to
Let you know just who tomorrow belongs to
Down at the Red Bank Restaurant
Down at the Red Bank Restaurant
So come down to d'Olier Street and tether your bike
And whisper your dreams of a thousand year Reich
Down at the Red Bank Restaurant
Down at the Red Bank Restaurant
Down at the Red Bank Restaurant
If England's invaded should we really care?
Down at the Red Bank Restaurant
These foreign disputes aren't our affair
You may say the Aryans are only barbarians
And you can shed tears for the Brits all you want
But if that's how you see it
Then you shouldn't be at
The Red Bank Restaurant.
The Crossword Solvers' Lunch
- from Improbable Frequency
Remember where we met?
- How could I forget?
Lunch in the Savoy, in '38.
An annual affair -
- It was my first time there -
- The crossword solvers' lunch was always great.
The cream of cruciverbalists all gathered in one venue -
- We had no trouble working out the menu.
At the crossword solvers' lunch in the Savoy, in London town
- You were the one across from me -
- So I was not too down.
We argued over imps and asps and ampersand and assegais
And I wondered what the casual observer might surmise
As we toasted all the deities whose names are daily grist
To the cruciverbalist.
We toasted A, then A, Athena,
And old reliable Isis,
You said, have we toasted pan?
- And the waiter brought some slices.
But you were my Venus
Not a cross word between us.
I allowed myself another glass of punch.
- And after lunch I strolled with you
The Strand and Picadilly too
And each place name became a clue
A powerful and magic clue
- Trembling on the brink of recognition as they sometimes do.
It may have been the punch, of course -
- My heart says it was something more
As we walked together after lunch
And just before the war.
The Bed-Time Jig
- from Improbable Frequency
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
And suddenly, how shall I put it?
A rather astonishing turn of events
Hard to believe, and it just sort of happened,
And really it -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- doesn't make any sense,
Let's say that I didn't go home as intended,
Not till the -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- till the morning at least,
She overcame her religious convictions,
And -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- I'm afraid I was rather a beast.
But while I was with her my - God Almighty -
My thoughts were -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- were racing about,
As I tried to make sense of my mission so far,
And the -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- the stuff I had yet to work out.
Philomena:
I'm not looking forward to going to confession
God bless us, I wouldn't know where to begin
Infiltrated by British Intelligence
Oxymoronic as well as a sin.
Tristram:
Have I walked into a honey-trap here?
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
I ought to be watching my back.
Why is this chaste, religious girl
So incredibly good in the sack?
Philomena:
This is so personal, what am I doing?
Tristram:
Oh!
Philomena:
Sure I won't call a halt to it yet.
How will I feel about this in the morning
A sin to remember? A shame to forget?
Tristram:
And I'm pounding away, and I'm pounding away
At this bloody delectable body of hers.
Oh!
Philomena:
- steady now, steady now -
Tristram:
Oh!
Philomena:
Got to stay in the saddle to earn your spurs.
Tristram:
Honey trap, honey trap, honey trap -
Philomena:
Oh!
In bed with a spy, in bed with a spy.
Both:
Oh, the guilt, the guilt, the guilt.
Philomena:
In bed with a spy, how intriguing am I?
Tristram:
I'll have to tell Green about breaking the code
Quite an achievement to break it
I pictured Green, and how happy she'd be,
Then I -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
I pictured her naked.
Whoah, batten the -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- the hatches,
I can't disappoint Philomena.
Let's face it, this -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- this espionage
Is a tricky and deadly arena.
Schrödinger's messages -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- come on,
Try to work out what they -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- what they meant,
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- and to whom they -
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- to whom they -
Philomena:
Oh! Oh!
Tristram:
- to whom they were sent.
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- the messages
Philomena:
Oh!
Tristram:
- the messages
Think of the messages, think of England.
Both:
Oh, the guilt, the guilt, the guilt
Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!
Tristram:
Oh, the messages, oh, the messages -
Philomena:
I feel so mysterious.
Both:
Oh! Oh!
Tristram:
And I feel imperious.
Both:
Oh! Oh!
Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!
Aaaaahhhhhh!
Dannielle Gallagher, Lisa Lambe and Kate Gilmore in The Train.
Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
If My Mother Knew
- from The Train
I was a rebel from the start
I questioned what my mother said
Must've nearly broke her heart
When she saw the books I read
Marx and Chairman Mao
Workers of the world united
Mammy coped somehow
Hardly what you'd call delighted
Days and years went by
By now she's seen it all
Providing me with alibis
Whenever cops would call
I wouldn't ask her to
She does it all the same
And now I think she knows each member
Of the Special Branch by name
I wonder will I throw all that away
If my mother hears about today.
I was a pious little clown
A holy Mary, that was me
Mammy, put that knitting down
We'll kneel and say the rosary
Holier than thou,
Holy medals, holy water
Mammy coped somehow
With her dear demented daughter.
Days and years went by
I lost my halo then
In search of other pieties,
Or certainties, or men
She took it in her stride
She took it with good grace
Although it must have crucified her
Keeping a straight face
Now I wonder what I'll throw away
If my mother hears about today
Who could have pictured me this way
Is all this anger really mine?
More than ready for today
And whatever's down the line
Hungry for the fight
Never mind the consequences
I'll make out alright
Never lower my defences
I can take it all
And give it just as well
I'm more than ready for a brawl
Just watch me give them hell
I'm ready for the fray
I'm ready for the fight
But I don't want my mother seeing me
On the news tonight
I don't even know what I can say
If my mother hears about today
*********
Barely remember way back when
My mother died when I was three
Giving birth to number ten
A proper Irish family
The doctor shook his head
You're too frail to have another
But the curate said
You're a wife and you're a mother
What could Mammy do
With Daddy in the bed
In no fit state to listen to
What the priest or doctor said
Sometimes I dream of her
She visits me at night
Then I tell her my adventures
And she smiles and holds me tight
So now I wonder what my mother would say
If she only saw me here today.
Kate Gilmore in The Train. Photo, Ros Kavanagh.
Kate Gilmore, Dannielle Galligan, Lisa Lambe, Karen McCartney and Sophie Jo Wasson in The Train. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
Tooral-aye-ay (for the IRA)
- from Improbable Frequency
I'm a wild Irish boy,I'm the pride of me town
In song and in stories I'm widely renowned
And if my roguish grin doesn't win you around
Then I'll bury you where you won't ever be found
With a song and a smile and a sieg and a heil,
And a tooral-aye-ay for the IRA
The brits are at war, so we'll give them what for
While they're looking the opposite way, boys,
While they're looking the opposite way.
You remember that peeler that gave me that look,
That I just couldn't brook, so by way of rebuke,
I brought him to book with me trusty slash-hook
That I took from me copious trousers
(That he took from his copious trousers)
With a song and a smile and a sieg and a heil,
And a tooral-aye-ay for the IRA,
To hell with the Jews, we'll light up a fuse
While the British are looking away, boys,
While the British are looking away.
Can anyone tell me, cos I don't know why it is
Nowadays our intellectual diet is
Solely comprised of the cosiest pieties,
Hitler is evil? Ah, change the record
We've heard it before, it's a boring cliche
And we need to be bold in our thinking today
But most of all, we need to make hay
While the British are looking the opposite way
It's time that we made the Brits understand
That we're taking a stand in our own native land
They'll be feeling a swipe of the back of my hand
And some Nazi torpedoes will do the job grand.
With a song and a smile and a sieg and a heil,
And a tooral-aye-ay for the IRA
The brits are at war, so we'll give them what for
While they're looking the opposite way, boys,
While they're looking the opposite way.
Darragh Kelly in Improbable Frequency. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
Sláinte Agus Saol
- from Improbable Frequency
Sláinte agus saol
May your powers never fail
May you smile at the troubles you once cursed
Leave your cares at the door
We have gargle galore
And the last drop as gentle as the first
And when closing time is called, may you be favoured with a wink
A sound and valued customer, you'll stay for one more drink
Sláinte agus saol
Sláinte agus saol
Sláinte, sláinte agus saol
When it's dark and it's damp
And the chill gives you cramp
And the rain has found a channel down your back
Sit down there and wait
While you anticipate
A great dirty draught of creamy black
And if the weather's balmy, sure you'll stay and celebrate
You can always tell the wife a shower of bowsies made you late
Sláinte agus saol
Sláinte agus saol
Sláinte, sláinte agus saol
Forbidden Fruit
- from The Train
Proudly bearing our forbidden fruit
Contraband loot, contraband loot,
The angels may cry, let the sky fill with thunder
Let the Lord condemn us from his throne
Still we have shown, still we have shown
We won't be defeated, we won't buckle under
I've got the Durex and the spermicide
And they won't take those from me
Look at the Gossamer, Fetherlite
Wanna see? Wanna see?
Got the offending articles in hand
In a plentiful supply
And if you want to sieze my contraband
Let's see you try.
Now to perpetrate a grievous crime
Now is the time, now is the time
We'll see if the state has the balls to arrest us
Let the bishops say there's hell to pay
We feminist demons have hides of asbestos.
Passing Marino and Fairview now,
Slowing down as we draw near,
They won't be stopping us anyhow
Did I hear someone cheer?
Over the bridge where the Tolka flows
We'll hold our heads up high
Will we damned to hell? Heaven knows
But we can try.
Proudly bearing our forbidden fruit
Contraband loot, contraband loot,
The angels may cry, let the sky fill with thunder
Let the Lord condemn us from his throne
Still we have shown, still we have shown
We won't be defeated, we won't buckle under.
Darragh Kelly and Lisa Lambe in The Train. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
Gung-Ho Gael
- from The Emergency Session
Saturday night, just got paid
Say, has anybody seen my motorcade?
Gonna rock'n'roll, gonna lose control,
Just me and old John Charles McQuaid
I'm the chief, I'm the chief,
I've got a constitution that you won't believe
So be a Dev-o-tee, don't give me grief
I'm a gung-ho Gael a go-go.
I'm a gung-ho Gael a go-go,
I'm the wild rap-raparee
I'm a bon viveur, a raconteur,
I'm the cutest hoor you'll ever see.
Wrap, wrap, wrap the green flag round me boys,
Wrap, wrap the green flag round me,
I'm six foot one, more fun than Fionn McCool on ecstasy
I'm a fun-lovin' fenian dude,
A Catholic with attitude
They call me the chief,
Dia's Muire daoibh
Now here's a musical interlude.
*********
I'm a gung-ho Gael a go-go,
I'm the wild rap-raparee
I'm a bon viveur, a raconteur,
I'm the cutest hoor you'll ever see.
I'm a rebel, I'm a rebel,
With a mean and moody sparkle
I'm a dark horse, I'm a cross between
James Dean and Arkle
My pronouns are me-me-me
I'm a rebel, with a blas
I'm an ancient Irish monument
I'm Celtic and I'm cross.
I'm a gung-ho Gael a go-go,
I'm the wild rap-raparee
I'm a bon viveur, a raconteur,
I'm the cutest hoor you'll ever see.
Me Jaunty Jarvey's Car
- from Improbable Frequency
Betjeman:
In me jaunty jarvey's car
I chase the praties near and far
Drink Shillelaghs at the bar
Shenannigans me blarney-o,
That's how leprechaun I've been
Some begorrahs I have seen,
Mary is me own crubeen,
In me jarvey's car I mean.
Tristram:
As I tried to read the messages
Betjeman sang some utterly cretinous
Doggerel that went on and on,
How long, how long, how long -
Betjeman:
La-lah, la-lah, la-la-lah -
Tristram:
Hard as I tried to concentrate
The relevant landscape filled with praties
Shamrocks, leprechauns, diddly-dye-dly
Why is he there, just wittering idly,
Block it all out, just read the document
Read the leprechaun, and again shenannigan -
Betjeman:
In me jaunty jarvey's car
La-lah, la-lah, la-la-lah
Drink shillelaghs at the bar
La-lah, la-lah, la-la-lah -
Tristram:
Shocument, la-la, doprecaun, crubeen,
Jigging in my head, didly eye, Philomena
Word-associating in me old cawbogue
And shillelaghs at the bar, shillelaghs at the bar
I've been looking for a poem but a song comes along
And it could be the key, I don't know I could be wrong,
Work it out, work it out, work it out -
Number all the letters that we find in the phrase
Drink shillelaghs at the bar, so we start with the 'A's
Now the 'A' in shillelagh's number one, there we are,
Number two is in 'at', number three is in 'bar'
On to the'B' that's in 'bar', that's four,
Then the 'D's and the 'E's, moving on once more,
Now these jumbled numbers are the anagram key,
Apply them to your letters and reorder them sequentially.
By George the Sixth, I've got it.
Stephanie McKeon and Brian Doherty in Improbable Frequency. Photo by Ros Kavanagh.
All in Vain
- from Improbable Frequency
You came ashore on a winter's day
Your black hair curling in the salt sea spray
You came ashore, just before the storm
In your bright red British army uniform.
They told me I shouldn't go to you
That you were thoughtless, and cruel, too.
They said you'd bring only grief and pain,
But the song they sang was all in vain.
All in vain,
I kissed you in the rain
How can I be freed?
How can I be freed
While I need these chains?
The precious hours you lay with me
Remember how I kissed you greedily
And in the darkness you held me close
Remember when I was your Irish rose?The ship sailed out on a gentle breeze,
I cried out to heaven on my knees
Please let me hold him, just once again,
But the song I sang was all in Vain.
All in vain,
I kissed you in the rain
How can I be freed?
How can I be freed
While I need these chains?
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