Twas the night before Christmas (once again yet again)

Twas the night before Christmas,
when all thro’ the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

In government buildings Brian Cowen was aghast,
it looked like the tables were turning at last;
Taoiseach by default, the fat lad was bawling,
while everyone else thought him just plain appalling.

Department of Finance, Brian Lenihan’s lair,
a place quite as false as his Just-for-Men® hair;
tough choices were needed, and he wouldn’t fudge it,
he’d fuck us all up with the upcoming budget.

The Greens had the chance to show they had morals,
instead they preferred to rest on their laurels;
they say cometh the man, then cometh the hour,
John Gormley he came, forgot honor, chose power.

The banks they were broke so we gave them a dig-out,
they said ‘thanks a lot’ and continued to pig-out;
huge wages, big bonus and subterfuge loans,
are still going on despite public moans.

The property market continued to crash,
developers lost their big bundles of cash;
in a normal place this would be news of high drama,
but we saved all their arses with that poxy old NAMA.

Meanwhile in Knock there are strange goings on,
and pilgrims they flock as they long to belong;
the virgin appears, they have so much fun,
until they discover they’re blind from the sun.

Murphy and Ryan provide frightening dish-ups,
about paedophile priests and whitewashing bishops;
we know all the facts, how it all came to pass,
but the faithful support them as they go to mass.

The unions are fuming, the poor public sector,
pension levies and pay cuts, they constantly hector;
but sympathy fades, the people grow tired,
of index linked pensions when they’ve just been fired.

Pat Kenny retired, no more the Late, Late,
Something different required, something new, something great;
Instead we got Ryan, the pencil necked geek,
who bores us to tears, Late, Late week after week.

Our dear old friend Bertie releases a book,
more cash in the bank for the stuttering crook;
‘PS, I hate you’ he’d probably cry,
when he realised most of us wish he’d just die.

The people of Ireland are tired of recession,
so much bad news leaves an awful impression;
the country’s in shit, we’re so sick of it all,
but can only protest after one French handball.

The news is pure grim, “It’s just like the 80s!!!”,
I think it’s much worse, I’m afraid to say, mateys.
Despite those who think we can get through and make it,
we Irish continue to lube up and take it.

The government’s crap, the economy’s flat,
Cowen puckers and bleats like a blubbery brat;
The alternative’s Enda, it’s a very sad day-0,
when Ireland’s last chance is that tweebag from Mayo.

—-

Like I keep saying, it’s tradition  (2004, 2005, 2006, 2007)

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This entry was posted on Monday, December 7th, 2009 at 6:11 pmand is filed under Blog. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

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