(8 December 1881 – 11 January 1972 / County Longford)

Sally's Stakes.

Sally bought a burger bar, to boost The Rangers' fund
The Ibrox staple diet, aimed at those he thought rotund
With stakes in his beloved club, his life would be complete
But the steaks that he referred to, were slabs of bloody meat.

The sight of burgers frying with sweet sauces on the shelf
Was more than he could handle so he ate them all himself.
He brought in Lee McCulloch to boost his weekly sales
But insistent on a weigh-in, big Lee broke the bloody scales.

Covered in the greasy stuff, fat dripping from his chin
He knew he had to change his ways as he gulped a Mickey Finn,
He may not make much money even if he buys some shares
But he'll always be the blue eyed boy to all his handsome Bears.

Slimming pills and skinny cokes, Sally's even off the beer
Sweating buckets every day and always feeling queer
But that's not down to exhaustion or too much exercise
It's that Charlie Green has confiscated all the bloody pies!

The Holy Poet.

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Comments (10)

The crows that shake the night-damp off their wings Upon the stones out yonder in the fields, The first live things that we see in the mornings; The crows that march across the fields, that sit Upon the ash-trees' branches, that fly home And crowd the elm-tops over in Drumbarr; The crows we look on at all hours of light, Growing, and full, and going these black beings have Another lifetime! - - - - - - - this entire poem is full of luscious images and a meaningfulness that lies in the lines so darkly glimmering
Blackness in darkness flying like the crows! Nice poem.
'that shake the night damp off their wings' This is a great poem that tenderly transitions from crows back to the speaker. So much great poetry from Ireland- the land where poetry itself sits enthroned. MM
Crows are always a good topic for a poem. And a great metaphorical vehicle. (If I do say so myself.) First read through I was originally put off by the opening stanza. Why the slow start? The oblique winging in to the substance? I want direct observation of the crows, not hearsay from another. And the litany of observation in the second stanza is spot on. Concrete. Indisputable. And for all that, pedestrian. I mean no poetic explosion into the realm of glittering brilliance. That comes in the third stanza, fortunately. Mystification. A crow in the night (like a polar bear in a snow storm) , not what's there - there - but what's in the mind behind the eyes. The transformative metaphor. So the fourth stanza returns to the human realm and relates the metaphor learned from the birds there. The observer, the nurturer, and then who? Sibling? More likely paramour, I think. He sees, shares with her, a secret in the dark. A trespass. How titillating. Under cover in the secret of the night.
An interesting write on crows. Congratulations to his soul.
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