Look, some people write epic, and some people write doggerel, and then there are some people who aren’t even Irish, so what do you know? Anyway, there was a gathering last night, and there was some Mexican whiskey at the gathering, and there was a great deal of singing, and so naturally, I wrote a song. Apologies, of a sort, to the English in the room. Sung, more or less, to the tune of, “Whiskey, You’re the Devil.”
Oh the English kicked our asses
For seven hundred years
But we have fairer lasses
And we have darker beers
So let them have the courthouse
And let them take the square
And we’ll go back to our house
And take some comfort there
Oh, the English fog is yellow
And the English heart is pale
If your friend’s an English fellow
Then your friendship’s sure to fail
So we’ll pay their English taxes
And we’ll speak their English tongue
But when their grip relaxes
Then will Irish songs be sung
Oh if I were born in England
I wouldn’t stay at home
I’d get right out of England
And to Ireland I would roam
So for all the English bastards
I feel pity more than scorn
Who wouldn’t be a bastard
If in England he was born?
My hangover doesn’t hang so over after reading that. So good!
My chortles continue unabated even now….
JOB
And oh hush and gooahn witchanow – how you are goin’ on about tings – I am supposin’ your own dear moder would blushin’ to hear you be disownin’ her side of your blude.
A black shame it is, I tellya.
I didn’t finish the poem but seeing the word ‘asses’ – yesterday, I skimmed through Donald Cowie’s poem, London, and near the end he uses the word ‘ass’ I think to imply that the Americans are not as bad as the English.
Do you mean you lost your job?
Thank you for asking. No, I did not lose my job. JOB is the nom de plume of one of the blog’s authors; I mean that I’m not as good as he is when it comes to the poem biz.