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)