Green Envy

Green Envy

When I’m a grownup with knowledge and cash,

A big, fancy wrist watch and Tom Selleck tash.

I’ll never think about what it’s like to be small.

I’ll just act the prick and a complete know it all.

With my shiny red hatch back blaring Coldplay all cool,

God I can’t wait to be that fucking tool.

‘Cause it seems to be normal in the grownups I see,

To be an absolute arsehole to kids like you and me.

Disregarding our education as if it’s a joke

And being condescending even though they’re all broke.

But it’s your fucking problem, you made this mess,

We’re all out of here; it’s not worth the stress.

So when you’re sixty five and your pension is due

There’ll be no fucking money and the joke is on you.

’Cause we’ll all be in London living the dream

I guess we’re not that fucking stupid…….. or so it would seem.

Ugly Duckling???

There once was an ugly duckling, with feathers all scruffy and brown,
And all the other ducks said, "quack, my God, quack, quack, oh my God, You're too mingin' for L.A. town".

The poor little ugly duckling was laughed at and teased and he cried.
He withdrew from the word and stayed in his room and away from the world he would hide.
His gnarly rough feathers were covered in tears as he reached for the biscuit tin,
He sat there and balled as he looked in the mirror; He now had a double chin.

The years they passed by as he sat in his room, immersed in the dreams in his head.
The Pixies, Bob Dylan, Wilde and Bill Hicks, his best friends while he lay on his bed.

When Uni came round he packed up his bags. He prepared for life in a battle,
He waddled on campus despite points and sneers in a college just north of Seattle.
The classes he chose were both varied and fun and the things that he liked the most,
Like politics, arts and the history of man, way up on that Pacific coast.

He learned to play drums, even formed his own band but just of the online kind,
Too afraid they wouldn't accept his strange face, anonymity was best he did find.
But from all of this work that he did on the net, he hatched a plan one fine day,
To start a podcast with music and chat and just see where his venture might stray.

He discussed John Lennon, the Pope and Iran, his honesty won him some fans,
With humour and research and knowledge and style a change from the usual fake tans.
A few months went passed and just by word of mouth, the listeners numbers grew big.
Refreshing to hear him not speak of himself like the usual self righteous pod-pig.

A radio station not far from his flat, got wind of this show on the web
And over the phone he was offered a job, he'd be heard from L.A. to the Leb.
His wages as well, quack quack oh my God, he couldn't believe his blind luck.
By just being himself he could do just fine for such a strange and fat ugly duck.

Now in his 50's with a wonderful wife, he opens the news every day
And reads about all the ugly real life that goes on all the time in L.A.
With divorces and face lifts and prescription pills and battling the day that you die
He smiles at his wife with his four meals a day.........polished off with a nice pecan pie.

Confused Bee Enthusiast and the Dread of Colony Collapse Disorder

While sitting watching telly, late last Thursday night

I heard some tragic news, which gave me an awful fright.

The disappearance of the B, vanishing across the land.

"Who really cares though?" I thought and I dismissed it out of hand.

But then they made another point that made me jolt awake,

About the colonies we’d lose and just what was at stake.

Cause then  it got me thinking, exactly what we’d lose

If all the colonies we had would soon become old news.

India and Bangladesh, Ireland and Oz

And little Fiji out at sea, its as if it never was.

And all because the B was lost, gone from our alphabet,

It seemed so strange, I was confused and I then began to fret.

For Bobby Charlton, Benny Hill and Alexander Graham Bell,

Would be erased from history as if vanished by a spell.

The Bacon Butties, Beer and Beans would never touch our lips

Fantastic for cholesterol  and wonders for our hips.

But culturally our foods not great at the very best of times,

With Boveril and Battered Bars, all culinary crimes.

And Beacons of our great  empire, the BBC and old Big Ben,

Would not stand up for Brittishness , We’d be off to sea again.

Even us, our country, our very name Britain,

Would be gone forever, lost it seems, as if it were never written

And Blur, Kate Bush and David Bowie would never touch our ears.

Imagine if the Beatles had not been with us all those years?

So yes I guess its not a shock, the British empire's in collapse.

We’ll have to write to all the schools and change all of the maps.

We underestimate you little B, and all the things you do

I hope its not too late dear friend and that we may rescue you.

Lucky is the Dog.......................

Look

If you hit a dog with a dirty big old hammer,

I’d beat you till your teeth fell out and leave you with a stammer.

Your bowels would never work again, your piss now always leaking.

Nobody would talk to you cause your clothes are always reaking.

Because you smashed his head in and left him there to die,

You really deserve the same yourself and by fuck I’d make you cry.

Apart from  branding your face all red, blistered by a poker.

I’d tie you on a motorway, neck held tightly by a choker.

And all the cars that drove that way, would throw stones and hiss and spit

When they read the sign above your head, telling them you’re such a shit.

And you’d stand there in your pissy pants, stuttering like a fool,

I bet you’d then regret being so fucking cruel.

So why the fuck d’you do it? What the hell was in your head,

When you opened up that nice old dog, and left him there for dead?

I’d really love to know the answer to the question that I pose

But I know you’re just a scumbag and would complain about your woes.

How the government won’t buy your food or new nappies for your spawn.

Get a job and sterilise yourself, your excuses make me yawn.

On second thoughts I think I’d just like to see you on that road,

Suffering the pain you deserve you prick and paying the debt you owed.

If Your Dad Ever Decides To Do Your Family Tree - Shoot Him

I've a funny feeling it was eighty eight,
The sun never shone, the rain, never late.
We rented a house in the county of Clare,
For fun on the beach and lots of fresh air.

Two small city kids were some novelty
But for us it was nothing but child cruelty.
Cause there's one bloody thing I'll never forget
And thinking of it gives me a cold sweat.

Its staring out the car window not giving a fuck,
I'd have eaten the arse off a low flying duck.
We saw ruins and forts and chevaux de frises
And loads of old churches just lying in pieces.

But they're not the things that still give me the willies
As we sat dumb in the car like two mute silly billies.
We should have screamed loud and just smashed up our seat
Till our despot chauffeur would have admitted defeat

But me and my sister were such good mannered kids
And I've no doubt were bribed by the promise of quids,
Or at least a Club Orange from in the next shop,
Then had our face stuffed with a nice lollipop.

But it cant be right that your childhood's been stole
And the back seats been moulded by an eight year olds hole.
North, south, east and west we bumped over the roads,
I don't know the right distance but I'm sure it was loads.

To old men with no teeth and no toilet too,
We thought we'd been taken to some strange sort of zoo
And crusty old farmers living over the hills.
Jesus just thinking of it is giving me chills.

For days upon days and week after week,
It seems total weirdos was all that my father would seek
And then there's the graveyards with grass full of tics,
While my friends all at home went off to the flicks.
Tombs, headstones and plots of distant dead people,
The death knell of my childhood rang out from the steeple.

Family fucking trees, I could not care less,
When it causes young children so much god damn stress.
I really don't care if in eighteen 0 two,
Paddy Mc Flaherty died trying to poo.
I'm sure it was normal with diseases back then
So why look so backwards at these long dead men?

We're all here today and that's really what matters
And I guess my childhood's not quite in tatters.
So spending my summer with my mum and my dad,
I guess I am lucky and I should feel very glad.

'Cause when I'm old and grey with kids of my own,
I can show them this Tree and watch them as they moan
And I'm sure they wont care about my "old person" tales
Of graveyards and farmers and trips through the dales.

While they play on their X-Box and tweet with their mates
And at eight years of age probably going on dates.
We saw the last of old Ireland now long dead and past,
So I guess it was a pleasure cause those days went very fast.

Where in the World???

Where in the world did you go to, my shoulder padded lady
You were my Sunday evening treat, at nine years old and acting shady.
I had no idea what was going on, what all these feeling were
As you quizzed with permed locks flowing, pearled earring’s and mink fur.

I’m not so sure about the mink, my older self hopes not,
I feel that might ruin what we had and now I wouldn't find you quite so hot.

I read that you’re happily married, 4 babies and a successful career
It hurts my dignity but I don’t care, I’m jealous it would appear.
I hate Frank fucking McNamara and his stupid piano hands
I wanted to play the drums; chicks dig musicians playing shitty rock in high school bands.
But I never bothered learning so that’s a moot point really and “hate” I guess is a strong word
But tears were shed when news came and you had married was what I’d heard

We could have been the best, the greatest couple of the day, 
I could have been your Miley, sneaking out with Biddy in the hay
Or Derek Davis, greedily eating up Thelma with his leers
His big fat belly crushing her must have brought grown men to tears.
But not me, no my love held strong for you back in 1989
No other girl would stir my eyes away from you, my love divine.

And now that you’re a lawyer, all grown up and working hard for the defence
Maybe you could hear my case, about how my love is still true and so intense
Theresa Lowe you fucking whore why did you wreck my life
Nothing since has filled the hole since you filled my world with strife,
When you walked out on me, there was no runner up prize; it was all or nothing with you
And I got nothing, just confusion in my 9 year old body and I didn't know what to do.

So all I've known since, is self-harm, magic mushrooms and chronic masturbation
And it’s all your fault, you were my one true love, my hope, guide and inspiration
I don’t know if I hate you now but if you decided to leave Frank or if somehow he died
On a fish finger I made him one day in the RTE canteen that I very badly fried.
Yes I’d have to say I’d definitely give you another chance
One more time to love me and in the evening moonlight dance.
We could feast upon each other like two lovers on death row
And know in our hearts how much thanks we'd give to that Sunday evening show
But if again you'd leave me like in nineteen ninety three
I’d hunt you down and cut your head off with an awful wild-eyed glee.
You see, my dear, this isn't a poem about love, loss and regret
Let’s face the facts Theresa it’s a fucking letter filled with threat

You see you've got such a lovely life, with the hubby and the kids
But Franks a fucking gimp and I'm sure that he forbids
All your finest pleasures and the things you think about in your dreams
Like fairy cakes and anal sex that you fill with lustful screams.
So stop the clock and hold the news, Glenroe can fucking wait
I’m sure this is a shock but really it’s just fate
So come along, please get in touch, I’m banned if you recall
The restraining order says 50 feet after that incident at the ball.
But you hair smelled so good, I just had to sniff, I didn't expect to blow my beans
All over your dress, and make a mess with my dick hanging out of my jeans.

So anyway my dear, we must catch up and chat
Please wear your finest shoulder pads, permed hairdo and a hat.
And let’s forget about the things that you might find offensive
Like my previous bad behavior and my suit that’s inexpensive

We’ll settle down, you’ll be my wife and life will be fulfilled
You’ll never think about the kids and I’m sure Frank will rebuild
I think he really loved Gay Byrne, with his big gay sweaty head
And I know you’ll never think of him, when you’re lying in our bed.

Cause as you know I’m not a man to settle for second place
And your head looks so much better when its attached to the rest of your face.
So where in the world have you gone to, my shoulder padded queen?
Lets make this happen, it’s your call, so please, please don’t be mean.

I Cannot Leave the Roman Catholic Church

I want to leave but they've slammed the door.

I want to get out but I can’t anymore.

They’re a shower of thieves and liars and scum

And I won’t march to the beat of their noisy drum.

They won’t listen to me down here on the ground

So why should they dictate from way up on their mound.

They shouted and threatened, roared, thieved and abused

And despite what they preach you’re never excused.

If you speak out of line and show some self-thought,

They’ll attack and deny and to heel you’ll be brought.

In the big UN book about my human rights

There’s a line in this book with some gracious sound bites.

I am free it appears, they have deemed it my choice,

To be religious or pagan, and my freedom’s my voice.

But our ball of corruption have come up with a rule

That denies me this choice like some sort of fool

That can’t think on my own and see what’s so clear

It’s all smoke and mirrors to make division and fear.

So they say I can’t leave but they can’t make me theirs

They won’t get my cash and I won’t say their prayers.

I’ll still feel unwell that my name’s on some list

Saying I’m theirs like that’s why I exist.

But if they’d even listen, if they could just tell

What’s in most of our heads, they’d all fuck off to hell.