Every Now and Then

Del Piero
Made an appearance.
Two to zero
Rovers fearless.

Sometimes I kid a touch,
But this time I kid you not.
We stood outside at dusk,
And we waited, and we watched
…
A little squeaking in the hush,
Then bats emerging from our loft.
…
…
We stopped counting as such,
At 103.
That’s really a bit much,
Even for me.

If an Irish politician
Was a breed of animal,
Then it would be, a cross.
Between a snake, parrot
And chameleon…
The Hypocritoppos!

Such a good day,
But I’m too tired,
To appreciate
It.
Maybe one day,
When I’m retired,
They might replay
It.

Defined an era,
Made a sport known.
Talented, ethereal,
Died alone.

The news and media,
Attack us with polls.
All a few can see are,
Taxes and tolls.
Then near Ballinabrackey
And not in the zoo,
Early in the morning
A woman spies a kangaroo!

Birthday
Party.
Not too many
Came.
But we
Laughed,
Full heartily.
Had a
Great,
Great,
Day.

A mararthon in each county,
They’re in my county
Today..!
They must be half cracked,
They’re almost
Half way!

Expenses,
Excuses.
Defence it is,
Useless.

I’ve finally come
To completion,
I’ve watched the DVD box set..!

I ask myself
One question,
What the hell do I watch next..?

P.S.
“Ain’t no shame holding onto grief…
As long as you make room for other things too…”
- Bubbles

So, is a hangover really worth the taste?
Of yummy liquid bread, with chase.
Thank God that they’ve stopped making it,
My body just can’t keep taking it.
The least they could do is abandon it,
The yeast, the hops, and the random bit.
A beer free world awaits us folks,
Lets clap hands, while our throat chokes!

Respect,
Step by step,
I slowly climb its ladder.
Then rapidly descend
To the rung of Sepp Blatter.
Just when things
Start
Looking up,
I master the art of
Fucking up.

On and on and on it goes,
The constant drone,
Keeps you off your toes.
On and on and on it goes,
When will he stop?
Nobody knows.
On and on and on it goes,
Joseph O’Connor,
In monotone.

His turn now stopping,
For the hearse has him wheeled
To his last journey today.
As they lowered his coffin,
In the next field
A tractor was turning the hay.
I know this is nothing,
I should let others yield
To mourning…
But for Jerry,
This rhyme is my way.
As they lowered his coffin,
In the next field
A tractor was turning the hay.

Nearly boiled,
Feeling spoiled.

Political news journalists,
Cream themselves.
The general public is,
In need of else.