Poems for All Occasions Read Online Free PDF Page A

what a grand floor it would be,
    To dance on for Biddy’s Night,
    We’d make the pavement rattle,
    Set- dancing with all our might..”
    The plane took off amidst the clouds,
    The boys ne’er said a word,
    Two cups of tea they sampled,
    Four cakes with lemon curd.
    Then when they reached old Heathrow,
    Tim’s face lit up with glee,
    “Open your eyes, now, Jamsey,
    We’ve landed, Buiochas le Dia.”
    They walked right through the Airport,
    Where people rushed up and down,
    “Do you know,” says Tim to Jamsey,
    “Are you sure we’re in London town?”
    “It looks to me like Africa,
    Or Jamaica, sure I’m right,
    The people are all black as coal,
    Blacker than the darkest night”
    “Ah, Eist do bheal, young Timmy,
    They’ll think you’re looking for fght.,
    Of course we’re now in London,
    ’Tis here half the world abide.”
    They got a taxi to the Regent,
    A hotel in Picadilly fair,
    Glad to sit and watch the crowds,
    Thronging that historic square.
    “Where to Mate,” said the taxi man,
    Tim looked really puzzled, indeed,
    “We don’t need “MEAT,” he answered,
    “We’ve just had cake and tea.”
    For the first few days they gazed out on
    The busy streets and roads,
    But were afraid to venture out,
    Says Tim “to be knocked down and mowed.”
    But then they got courageous,
    Friday to be exact,
    They walked out of the big hotel,
    And around them slyly glanced.
    Turning left, they strolled at ease,
    Gazing here and there,
    Until they reached old Soho,
    With its red lights, stalls and wares.
    A gorgeous girl, beside a door,
    Waved at the two fine men,
    “Crikey,” says Tim to Jamsey,
    “A Spéir bhean, tall and slim.
    She must be from our valley,
    She seems to know us two,
    Maybe she is that young wee lass,
    Belonging to Micky Thade McHugh.
    Let’s go over, and have a chat,
    She’ll be glad to hear the news,
    From her native glen away back home”
    So over marched the two.
    The girl spoke with a cockney twang,
    “Do you want business, Gents,” says she,
    Tim gave her a mighty toothless grin,
    “Business, without cows and sheep,
    “Ah, my wee nice girl,” he answered,
    “We’re on holidays from the land,
    So unless you come to Ballyho,
    No bargains will pass our hands.”
    The girl’s eyes grew angry
    Were they wasting her precious time,
    They spoke and muttered rubbish,
    Grinning, insulting her pride.
    She closed the door and hid inside,
    Until they moved away,
    “Ah that poor girl’s quite simple,
    Says Tim and his face was grave.
    “Ah sure the noise of cars and gangs,
    Would make the soundest mind insane,
    Thank God we’ll be back in Ballyho,
    It’s the best place, all the same.”
    The two were glad to return home,
    But for years they raved and raved,
    About their trip to London,
    And the grand wee girls o’er there.
    Yet not one girl had passed the test,
    “We’ll stay single on our own,
    Who wants a woman to disturb our rest,
    We’re happy in Ballyho.”

COURSING
    A pale sun peering through clouds,
    Casting broken rays of light on an enclosure,
    Where a grey- brown mountain hare
    Flees for his life, with frightful leaps,
    Left, right, to and fro, backwards and forwards,
    Chased by two whimpering greyhounds,
    Their shadows growing and stretching,
    Tongues protruding, frothing for the kill.
    Motionless, I stood helpless, frightened
    As that panting little quadruped,
    Its furry body, teased, scared and then,
    Caught between the pointed teeth of
    Two blood thirsty greyhounds,
    Who savagely tear skin from
    Its furry aching neck.
    Its hind legs ruptured from
    Sockets of bone and flesh.
    Yet the heart continued to beat
    In a torn bisected body.
    Its brain still functioned
    In spite of pain and torture.
    The agony of a long drawn out death.
    At last beheaded and torn,
    The remains of its mangled body,
    Torn asunder by two prized hounds,
    Applauded by shouts of joy and praise
    From punters, who still declare
    The hare died a pain less death

‘MONOLOGUES
    Index of Monologues;
    1)