just me

Just me

I was born in the early part of nineteen sixty three,

And to this day I live in total amazement,

How? did I make it to this age and still be me?

It’s nothing short of a miracle, heaven sent,

I survived teething, on a led painted cot,

Landing on my head, when I climbed out of bed,

Didn’t starve, from all those things I had not,

Informed to firmly, keep my tongue, inside my head,

Learned early on that drugs, would keep me out of control,

Stayed there for a while until I discovered booze,

Discovered you had to over eighteen, to drink, so I stole,

Seemed easier, as I was out of it, and didn’t have to choose,

Thought anyone over twenty was really old,

Until I reached twenty and I changed it to thirty,

No way was there a single thing I could be told,

Thirty soon became forty,

Passed the millennium, everyone said the world would end?

Couldn’t believe it when I awoke with a hangover,

Self-infliction and a few pints would soon have me on the mend,

Had a purpose in life and nothing seemed to be a bother?

Worried about everything that I, couldn’t control.

Controlled all I could and still worried,

Became a family, a unit, felt whole,

Still worked, hassled, harried and hurried,

Made it through the 60’s, 70’s, 80s’, 90’s and the rest,

I look around me, I see people young and without a clue,

Of what it is to be put to the test,

Things the younger generation will say, they never knew,

For all must be handed to them on a silver platter,

They cannot learn a skill set that we older ones acquired,

How or where it comes from doesn’t seem to matter,

In order to live, you must cope and survive it’s required,

Thank heaven I was born in nineteen sixty three,

I’ve gotten this far and I’m glad, I turned into just me.

pennsylvania we hear ya

Pennsylvania we hear ya

Oh, he’s coming, the head of Catholicism, let’s all meet him in the park,

Show him how good we are, let’s all have a lark,

Show him there’s no hard feelings, foe the damage his lot have done,

Stealing so many childhoods, hiding all his buddies, every one,

Send them to the missions, where no one will ever know,

Off to Pennsylvania, where their horror stories grow,

But their leader, he is coming, to visit one and all,

And we are paying for this privilege, we won’t help the ones who fall,

Now he might just be a good man, I cannot say for sure,

But when his lot were asked for help, they firmly shut the door,

Hid the priests who were preying, on the parish kids whom they perceived,

No one would ever listen to, they wouldn’t be believed,

In among the families who were broken and ignored,

Outwardly showing compassion, to darkened places, the abused were lured,

But to Ireland he is coming, the chairman of their board,

While the Vatican in its banks, our offerings it will hoard,

Still around the pews, their basked it is sent,

We pay for their escape, yet not one of them repent,

Oh now these missions are educated, no longer quiet on the floor,

All are beating the same path, to the churches door,

And still the ranks are closed, yet hiding in plain sight,

Hoping those abused, will either die, or give up the fight,

In Ireland we’ll spend millions, to welcome the papal crown,

Hide every bad thing they did, have a party in every town,

The head of the largest paedophile ring in the world, is coming to the park,

Why not throw our kids at him, let’s all despair, continue hiding in the dark,

Pennsylvania is not alone, their predicament is nothing new,

But every cent put in that basket, helps them bury what we know is truth.

a quiet night in squires

A Quiet Night in Squires

On an evening in august, as the light began to fade,

I called herself unto me and said, this day was almost played,

As we sat and thought, we had little else to do,

So to the pub we went thinking a quiet drink or two,

As we had our first, sure, the squire himself appeared,

And all was quiet, in this pub, that is revered,

Some friends they came to join us, as we sat and had our beer,

In walked a bunch of Canadian people seeking cheer,

Turned out they are good singers, and want to hear a song or two,

Who better to oblige them, then a poet and teacher true?

Competition it was lively as Canada went into the lead,

Yet as Irish we dug deeper, more beer was all we’d need,

There was singing, there was talking, one and all forgot the time,

Closing was for half eleven, but half one rang out the chime,

The Irish poet he rose up and read out one of his ode’s,

The squire he had left, and his wife now held the court,

Sing on she said ye’re no bother, why would I stop ye now,

Sure tis way past closing time, and I enjoy the crowd somehow,

On and on we went, singing songs to beat each other,

Until a draw it was declared, by a 95yr old singer’s mother,

No more poetry no more singing, the night was coming to an end,

Out for a quiet evening sixteen people, had now made friends,

The songs ring out as ever, towards upscale music eighty five,

Proving yet again, Canada and Ireland are truly alive,

To Judy and your group, who happened upon, a quiet local bar,

Ye made a quiet night of contemplation, into a bright and shining star,

May ye travel well and true, be safe in everything ye try,

It was a night we’ll all remember, this we never can deny,

A restless night who’d have thought we’d meet,

Neither Canada nor Ireland, have tasted singing defeat.