Friday, 2 November 2012
We rambled to Skelly’s last night for a pint,
The Bull and the Finger and me,
Eyed round the bar and called for a jar,
“Soft porter and slow, make it three”.
Admired the dark stout, kissed the white collar,
And tested the weight of the glass,
Then drank long and deep, wiped the top lip,
“Bejasus” says Finger, “that’s class”.
We settled down snug on tall counter stools
And sympathised one with the other,
At the state of the country, that hadn’t a job,
To offer to Tom Reilly’s brother.
We analysed fair the company there,
Yet mentioned the merits of all,
“Give us three Pat” says Bull “and smarten yourself”.
A breeze rambled in from the hall.
Pint number two was better than one,
And three and four better again,
Buzz in the brain, familiar yet new,
Tom Reilly was chewing his pen.
The chat ranged from football to politics foul
Enda, and all of that lark,
Young Brian and old Brian both gone to God,
Mick O’Dwyer should be in the Park.
I was the first to visit the gents
Pressure built up to a head,
After a gallon I traveled again,
Stomach as heavy as lead.
The third time I went, the purpose was urgent,
Not just to answer the call,
With a hop and a skip, I just got the trip,
And sprayed the whole lot on the wall.
I straggled back painful to join the two brothers,
They were just getting into their stride,
I skipped the next round and the one after that,
Instead I just swallowed my pride.
We bounced off together, mellow and mute,
A happy and satisfied band,
“Tomorrow night lads, we’ll have more of the same
Sure sensible drinkin’ is grand”