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Rare Oul' Times in the County Wicklow (Free verse) by Edna Sweetlove We all piled out of the pub
Pissed as a load of newts;
'Where to now boys?'
Bellowed naughty Niall O'Neill
(that's notorious nineteen pints a night Niall)
As he tottered over to his Pa's Rolls Royce.
'Do ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful
I just seen you put away?'
Enquired serious Sean slurringly
From his slightly inconvenient
Viewpoint in the beery gutter.
So we all clambered gaily into the car
And roared off into the enchanted night
And then this bloody stupid clodhopper
Who didn't even have his driving licence yet
Came round the next corner in his Ford
And got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come.
'Oh shit, would ye just look at the mess
The oul' fella's made of me Daddy's car,
And it's his pride and joy so it is!'
Cried Niall O'Neill in incandescent rage,
As he surveyed the largest insurance claim
In the County Wicklow for twenty years.
How fortunate Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both testify from their vantage point
In the front seat of the devastated Roller,
The accident was not Niall's fault at all, at all,
As the other stupid sober bugger was on
The wrong side of the goddam street.
Up the ladder:
SNOGGO's Adolescent Adventure in Sidmouth
Down the ladder:
The Tale Of Marietta And The Hornbag Priest (v.1)
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Posted: October 29, 2006 4:21 AM PST; Last modified: October 31, 2006 4:28 PM PSTWeighted score: 7.642391 Overall Rank: 5 The following users have marked this poem on their favorites list:
Comments:
I had a comment to make, but seeing as the author is a total fuck, I'll keep it to myself. Edna=0 Just because. :)
Yes, keep it to yourself. I like Italy. I like Italians. Half castes? That's a different bucket of ravioli.
Right on, Edna. I get pissed off with all these namby-pambies rabbiting on about drinking and driving. Most accidents are caused by unlicensed yobs (often Afros) who can't drive and who have no insurance (mainly becaused the car has been stolen).
Driving in Ireland is fun, especially if you have only one hand, like my wife Conny.
Fucking paddies....
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My grammar is lovely. When she was younger she could sing all twenty-three verses of 'Hooplah, Hooplah, Where's My Fucking Hooplah?' while making Sunday roast for an entire workhouse's population of orphans. Of course, in those days the rationing system didn't extend to orphans, miscreants, tramps or other undesirables so they had to roast an orphan every week. Occasionally they'd get lucky and a German pilot would come crashing down, screaming and burning in the wreckage. Those Germans are so full of chocolate and bratwurst they can feed an entire plantation's worth of GCSE-mentality controversial poets, can't they? With ketchup!!!!!!!11 LOL!!!!!!11111oneoneoneoneonehundredando
She never got her Hooplah.
Tell you what: Next time someone invades your pussy little country, we'll just let them enslave you and rape your people and have a jolly-good time. And it's going to happen sooner or later.
You never know, the BNP might one day throw up a leader with enough credibility to make it. That'll be interesting.