John O'Keeffe: The Hornpipe

Did you ever watch the news
and wonder what you're missing,
what the real story is behind it all?
Well sit down in your pews
and prepare for hours of listening
to the sermon from book one of Berlin's famous wall.

No matter what the topic
of the night's discussion:
Poverty in Africa or the curlew's mating call:
John O'Keeffe won't mock it,
but he'll mention its relation
to his part in the bringing down of the Berlin wall.

He undercover ran with a mob of plenty
through the streets of Berlin West,
commis one and all.
Years before his time (was he even twenty?)
I'm sure you've nearly guessed -
he brought down the Berlin wall.

Forgotten by historians,
and by most of his relations,
he relies on storytelling for his glory to recall.
Unlucky for our hero the only public recitations
are given by himself,
so we will know about it all.

(Explanation: My uncle, John O'Keeffe, has told us the story of his part in the fall of the Berlin Wall a million times. For all of our mocking it is a great story and he is great at telling it. I wrote this in December 2005. It is written in hornpipe time.
Inspired by: My uncle, John O'Keeffe)

Home Help Yourself

Well of course the majority of clients claimed the service is great, they’re well fed...

Of course they did, why wouldn’t they? They’re not the ones who are dead.

They’re not the ones who can’t complain, they’re not the ones who can’t eat.

And what of the ones who waited in vain for their two veg. and their meat?

Why didn’t the home help come with a meal prepared and cooked?

Maybe the agency thought that these ones were the dead on their books.

I work for free in my home, 24 hours a day. I have to balance the tiniest budget without any breaks or sick-pay.

Private sector employees who struggle for minimum wage in their pocket

don’t get to lie, scheme or juggle and then claim they’re a not-for-profit.

A confidential investigation? Why not just call the guards?

Why send a nurse on this mission, shouldn’t she be working the wards?

Yet more of the same from this Irish isle: Save the banks, save all of the crooks,

save these grave-robbers and all of their kind while we pay to examine their books.

It makes me wonder, meals for the dead.

HSE blunders, their claims of no beds.

Could it simply be that they don’t know the amount

because the investigating nurse is the one who can count?

(Explanation: The HSE has carried out two confidential investigations into not-for-profit organisations. This particular case involved a home help agency that received €1.7m from the HSE to match the amount of people it claimed to be serving, including the dead ones.

Inspired by: http://www.independent.ie/national-news/elderly-clients-on-homehelp-firms-list-dead-for-four-years-3282193.html#disqus_thread )

I Wish I Was A Ferret

I wish I was a ferret but not just any one,

I’d like to be from Spain and then from Castellón.

I’d like to have a contract for my ideal work

and I’d like to get my meals there as a little perk.

Did you know that they’re crepuscular? Ferrets are like owls

but they can use their anal gland if it gets too loud.

So much fun to be a ferret with the job security

working in Valencia for the air authority,

sleeping 18 hours and working with a smile

in the shadow of a gobshite standing tens of metres high.

Sorry, Carlos Fabra, if this seems like an indictment:

Ferrets do the weasel war dance when there is excitement.
And, finally, one more before asking for forgiveness:
The collective noun for ferrets is indeed a business.

(Explanation: Local Castellón Populist Party politician, Carlos Fabra, spent years and a fortune building his personal project, an airport in the Valencia region of Spain. In 2011 it was ready for action. To date, it has had zero action except for that of the ferret crew whose €600,000 contract began before the airport was due to open in order to have pests like rabbits and pigeons under control before landings and takeoffs would commence.
Inspired by:http://www.psmag.com/business-economics/airport-to-nowhere-spains-costly-no-fly-zone-39797/ )

Child Benefit Stole My Child’s Allowance

Child Benefit?
Benefit?
Are my children on the dole?
Re-introduce it
then reduce it
while you share the pot of gold
to cover all the asses
of financial institutions
so the bankers can keep banking
on your generous contributions.

Michael Noonan, did you know
that you were once a child?
Someone had to care for you
......once upon a time.
Were you loved and helped and taught and hugged,
fed well and regularly?
Would you have had your primary carer treated
the way you’re treating me?

In came the doctor,
in came the nurse,

out came the baby to no money in the purse.

         The BlogMarch continues tomorrow at At The Clothesline
           with a personal and detailed account of how a cut in Child Benefit 
                                     would affect this family:  
                  Stuck In The Middle- No To Child Benefit Cuts

                     
10 posts over 10 days from 10 members of The Irish Parenting Bloggers.


And on we march:

Day 3  (Wednesday 10th):   Mind The Baby
Leave child benefit alone. Tax maternity benefit instead.         

Day 4  (Thursday 11th):       Dreaming Aloud
Down to the Bare Bones' - Cutting (the fat of) Child Benefit        

Day 5  (Friday 12th):          Mama Dynamite
HANDS OFF MY CHILDREN'S ALLOWANCE       

Day 6  (Saturday 13th):       Kate Takes 5
Won't get fooled again              

Day 7  (Sunday 14th):         Wholesome Ireland
Let Them Eat Cake 

Day 8  (Monday 15th):       Meetmums
March Against Cuts to Child Benefit

Day 9  (Tuesday 16th):        The Serious Wagon
That's Fighting Talk
 

Day 10 (Wednesday 17th):  Mama.ie
You do the maths!     

And a blog of support from abroad from Awfully Chipper
Blog Marching


You can sign the online petition here.
You can use hashtag #BlogMarch.
You can read, think, discuss anywhere.

The Irish Parenting Bloggers are great writers and each post on the BlogMarch is the blogger's own view. Enjoy!

It Really Could Be Worse, Kate

Oh Duchess, I am on your side:
The press have been plain rude.
You shouldn't hit the headlines
for sunning your own boobs.

But think a while, peruse this,
it could have been worse by a lot:
I could have been the nudist
that the paparazzo shot.
The poor readers, just imagine,
if I was the chosen one:
Lumps, bumps, scars, stretched-out skin
and no hair removal done.
The photographer would lose his wits
and be traumatised I guess
on seeing that my hanging tits
are nowhere near my chest.
He'd certainly recoil and yelp
and smash his camera gear
and possibly seek special help
to wipe his memory clear.

It really could be worse, Kate,
take heart, just sue those pests.
There'd be no-one buying papers
for photos of my breasts.

(Explanation: A French magazine published photos of Kate Middleton sunbathing topless. Let's all be grateful that it wasn't photos of me splashed across their pages.)

The Artful Dodger

I’m just your average Joe and I’m not without my woes,

my family was all I cared about.

I worked to have enough to buy them food and clothes and stuff.

Not much, but they never went without.

Though I toiled and strained, I had no cause to complain

For I had a friend in dear old Lady Luck.

Her support and comfort came in the form of horses’ names

and the numbers for the weekend Lotto Plus.

Oh Mahon, can’t you see that they all ganged up on me?

I never took a penny, I’m a saint.

I had a lot of friends and they used me to their ends

and now I find I can’t recall their names.

Sure why wouldn’t they all clammer to hear my speeches and my stammer?

To listen to an eminent cute hoor?

With my Harp-belly displayed over my pants beneath the weight,

I cut a dashing figure, that’s for sure.

How I miss the days of old, money bags and envelopes,

playing Fagin to my gang of boys so true.

They understood my needs and signed-up to my creed:

You’ve got to pick a p-pocket or two.

Micheál, it’s with revulsion that I hear of the expulsion,

you’re only where you are because of me.

Our make-up costs the same and you’re not exempt from blame.

Sure weren’t we all together at the party?

(Explanation: No, there just is no logical explanation for Bertie Ahern!)

The Space By The Fire

That space by the fire

wasn’t always there.

It used to be reserved for a lady in her chair.

She was old and she was tired

and she deserved that seat,

the best one in the house for toasting hands and feet.

 

And what a place to die;

what a way to end your days,

surrounded by full life of a house always ablaze

with cooking, cleaning, dancing,

laughing, dreaming, singing too,

stories and romancing and Mick Daly’s mini-zoo.

 

Bridget Whelan won’t go far

from where her body used to sit.

You may not see her but you’ll know she’s in the thick of it.

(Explanation: Our neighbours' grandmother died recently having been cared for by our neighbour and her family for a long time.)

With Love To My Antonym

I think that saying must be true,

I think it must be fact,

for you and I are opposites

and we certainly attract.

You always take the rubbish out

and no-one does it finer.

And I always go to use the bin

and find that there’s no liner.

You always hoard such useless things;

nothing is discarded.

I only keep necessities

but you throw them out regardless.

You always keep so neat and clean,

washed and shaved and combed.

And I always find my towel’s been used

for wiping shaving foam.

You always put the channel on

that I want to see.

And I always find you’ve changed it

if I pop out to make tea.

Aren’t we lucky, you and me,

such balance in our lives?

I wouldn’t change a thing about

our constant compromise.

(Explanation: I wrote this for my husband on Valentine's Day 2010. Perfect Me is the 2014 update! 
Inspired by: Martin O'Sullivan)