The annual Synge Street Feast.
Friendly neighbours. Chilled minds. A baffled greyhound.
Just like last year, only moreso.
(Pix: Oisín Kane)
The Day Stephen Donnelly Joined Foster and Allen
While gutless others shivered
alone in wardrobes of their own making,
debating whether to kill
by strangling, or have sexual intercourse with,
you strode into our national crisis
stage left stylish
as a string quartet about to fiddle out
on viola, cello, Stradivarius
something by the late Benjamin Britten;
a set of implausibly perfect teeth attached
to what sounded like a brain.
Your intelligence so vast
you had to get the builders in
to extend the dome of your skull
to accommodate a Masters
degree from Harvard.
Not content to be the usual
slight disappointment, you reveal
yourself to be the thinking wing
of the Foster and Allen Party; politically flexible
as a cross-community Belfast brothel;
slick as rubbery bacon; aesthetically pleasing
as a Chicken Snack Box thrice reheated
before nine o’clock in the morning
or a third hand pair of trousers grown
pungent with badly digested cabbage;
but destined tonight to be wildly applauded
in darkest Arklow by those who’ll have
the shirts torn from their backs
when next the market crashes.
Annie West tweetz:
Tish and pish to your Bouncy Castle. This was a kids’ birthday Party yesterday