The poetry mix - Tom Humphries

The Twelve Days of Mick's Christmas

On the first day of Christmas, Keano sent to me...

A treaty by Jimmy Magee.

On the second day of Christmas, old Keano sent to me...

Two goalies gloves,

And the severed hands of Alan Kelly.

On the third day of Christmas, Royston sent to me...

Three maimed muppets,

Two death threats,

And a picture of Dave Connolly.

On the fourth day of Christmas, Roy he sent to me...

Four black plagues,

Three new viruses,

A little mustard gas,

And some anthrax in a pear tree.

On the fifth day of Christmas, The boyo sent to me...

Mother Theresa's nuts,

John Delaney's guts,

Richard Dunne's butt,

My own left foot,

And Mick Byrne wearing lingerie.

On the sixth day of Christmas, His Corkness sent to me...

Six Kilbanes a playing,

Tommie Gorman abraying,

Four sports hacks,

Three Dunphys,

Two lawsuits,

And more guff from Jimmy Magee.

On the seventh day of Christmas, Roy Keane sent to me...

Richard Dunne a slimming, to the size of South Korea,

Five assassins,

Four killers,

And a dose of gonorrhoea,

Two turtle doves,

And a picture of Haaland's knee.

On the eighth day of Christmas, the Red Devil sent to me...

Eight bacon slicers,

Seven rats incisors and a half pound of minced me,

Six Duff-ers, with 12 bad knees,

Four Gary Breens,

Some other has-beens,

And one Phil Babb, on a car owned by the Gardaí.

On the ninth day of Christmas, the bastard sent to me...

Nine ladies dancing,

Eight maids a-milking,

Seven girls a-singing,

Six maids a-flirting,

Five golden blondes,

Four cute brunettes,

Three redheads,

Two Kylies,

They had heads like Jimmy Magee.

On the 10th day of Christmas, the hoor sent to me...

Ten Dervans writing, in fluent soccer cliche,

Eight lads a-gutted,

Seven parrots sickly,

Six moons over,

Five early doors,

Four funny old games,

Three old mates

one bargain bin, for my auto-bio-graphy.

On the 11th day of Christmas, Roynaldo sent to me...

11 cyanide pills,

10 Chernobyls,

Nine pols gladhanding,

Some misunderstanding,

Eight Mentons,

Seven Taff Evans's,

Six Big Jacks,

Five heart attacks,

Four press conferences,

A P45,

and a rejection from Sun-Der-Land FC.

On the 12th day of Christmas, that loon he sent to me...

12 skips for training,

Special drinks for drinking,

A level playing pitch, on an island that was in the Lee,

Bottled RoyRage Paranoia pills,

More Ian Hartes, and a warning to practise penalties.

Jimmy Magee's dove,

Pat Kenny's love,

The jersey of a Dub,

And the speeches of Frank Murphy.

When A Dub Is Born

A ray of hope flickers in the sky,

A tiny star lights up way up high,

All across the land, there's stirring in the soul,

This comes to pass when he scores a goal.

Ray Cosgrove sails the seven seas,

And his goals bring teams to their knees,

No more doubts of old, no jibes or easy jokes, This comes to pass, though he plays for Crokes.

A sea of blue, bubbles all around,

Ray scores two, Kildare are leaving town,

For a spell or two, no one wept or cried,

This comes to pass, though he's from the southside.

(Spoken) And all of this happens, because the world is waiting.

Waiting for one child; southside, northside, no one knows . . .

But a child that will grow up and turn tears to laughter, hate to love, war to peace and everyone to everyone's neighbour, and misery and suffering will be words to be forgotten forever -A free-taker.

It's all a dream, an illusion now,

It must come true sometime soon somehow,

Tommy scours the land for a Dub who'll kick a free, he'll find one soon, but not in UCD.

Away in a Manger

Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Cork hurler laid down his sweet head.

The stars in the bright sky looked down where he lay,

The little Cork hurler prayed to the GPA.

Frank Murphy is lowing, the giant awakes, and the little Cork hurler just lies there and shakes.

I love thee, Cork hurling, JBM and Ring-ee, but I need 20 tickets and leisurewear for free.

Be near me Des Farrell, I ask thee to stay,

Spartacus forever, we'll free all the slaves.

Bless all the dear hurlers, in thy tender care,

And take them to heaven, with mileage all the way there.

Bertie the Taoiseach

Bertie the Taoiseach was a jolly happy soul,

With a big brass neck and a nosey nose,

And the dream of a Bertie Bowl.

For Bertie the Taoiseachit's a fairytale,

they say,

It's made of sand,with a big grandstand,

and it'll be very far away.

Oh, there must have been free Bass

in those polling booths last May.

Because we voted for cutbacks,

And the Bowl so far away.

O, Bertie the Taoiseach,

He's as proud as he can be,

Though UEFA said ha, ha, ha,

To his little facility.

Thumpetty thump thump, Thumpety thump thump, Does Bertie even know.

Thumpetty thump thump, Thumpety thump thump, We have no Bertie Bowl

Bertie the Taoiseach knew

The game was up that day,

When Croker said , "Let's open up

We'll make enough to run the GAA."

Down to the Congress,

With a big wad in his hand,

Running here and there,

all around the square saying,

Stop it if you can.

I'll bring ye down to Abbotstown,

Right to the Bertie Bowl.

And no one paused to wonder,

Is he talking through his spokesperson,

For Bertie the Taoiseach,

Had to hurry on his way,

But he waved goodbye, saying:

"Don't you cry, I'll do the same to the FAI."

Thumpetty thump thump, Thumpety thump thump, Does Bertie even know.

Thumpetty thump thump, Thumpety thump thump, We have no Bertie Bowl

The Most Laddish Week of the Year

A field full of boys means a sackful of joys For millions of men and for millions of boys,

When the Irish Open is here,

The most laddish week of the year!

An executive box and no ladies who shout, "Wake up, don't you know that it's time to come out!"

The Irish Open is here,

It's only for boys, but no we're not queer!

Boys galore,

Scattered on the floor,

And Portmarnock's your home

If you're Pringle has the right chromosome!

A Big Bertha for Jimmy, a birdie for him,

They're the only ladies who can come in,

When the Irish Open is here,

They have testosterone in their beer.

Concluding medley

To tune of Hark! The Herald Angels

Sing Hark! the Herald pages sing

Glory to the next big thing! Sonia's Gold!

And she with child, Roy and Mick are reconciled!

Joyful, all ye critics, rise,

It's the old year in disguise;

The FAI still studies Genesis,

Tell me then what year this is!

Hark! the herald angels sing,

Glory to the next big thing!

Kerr by media is adored;

We hang on his every word;

Late in time behold him come,

Manager of, our team so glum.

Wearing suits and always smiley;

He works with Noel O'Reilly

Noel is bald, but he's not phoney;

He's not like Doctor Tony.

To tune of The First Noel

The Bald Noel, the papers did say,

Was to soothe Roy Keane with the guitar he dothplay,

In hotels as they'd lie, and in first-class seats,

He's strum and he'd sing till Roy was asleep.

Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,

He is Roy's private minstrel.

To tune of We Three Kings

We three golfers of Ireland are,

Playing in tournaments both near and afar.

Darren and Padraig, and old Paul McGinley, Following yonder star.

(Chorus) O Tiger of wonder,

Tiger so bright,

Tiger you keep us awake at night,

Slender defender of Augusta's only gender,

Guide us to thy perfect Light.

To tune of Good King Wenscelas

Eddie O'Sullivanfirst lucked out when

they got shut of Gatto,

While the body lay round about,

Ed threw in his hat. Oh.

Dricco hung the moon that night,

The Claw was nice and cruel,

When a poor man came in sight,

They said, you know the rule.

Hither, page, and stand by me.

If thou know it telling: Yonder peasant,

who is he?

Where and what his dwelling?

Sire, he works in the port, his

father is a docker,

He doesn't wear an old school tie,

He should stick with soccer.

To tune Of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

I Saw Bertie kissing John O'Donoghue,

underneath the mistletoe last night.

They didn't see me creep,

Down the stairs to have a peep,

They said they'd screwed up, the biz with Europe.

Then, I saw Bertie tickle Raphael Burke,

Underneath his jowls so full and red,

Oh, what a Bowl it would have been,

If Raphael had overseen

The planning process from A to Zed

To tune of Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer

Grandma got run over by a Schumacher,

Walking home from our house on Christmas eve,

You can say there's no such thing as Santa,

But as for me and Grandpa, we believe,

She'd been drinkin' too much egg nog,

Her head was astarting to go,

And she'd left her medication,

So she snogged with Eddie Irvine in the snow.

When they found her Christmas mornin',

At the scene of the attack

There were skidmarks on her forehead,

And Eddie's was caressing her back,

Grandma got run over by aSchumacher,

Walkin' home from our house Christmas eve,

You can say there's no such thing as Santa,

But as for me and Grandpa, we believe.

Now we're all so proud of Grandpa,

Today she's standing tall

Formula One and shifting Eddie,

They're no trick at all.