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Oh God, I love Bank Holidays
In all their shapes and sizes.
On some, you sit around and laze,
Whilst others pack surprises.
The sunshine might well split the stones,
It might be dank and dreary,
We might watch Indiana Jones
Or go down to Dun Laoghaire.
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The thing, though, that I love the most
Is waking up mid-morning,
No scramble for the half-done toast
Or shaving while I’m yawning
No sitting in a mile-long jam,
With language coarse and graphic.
I kneel, and thank the Lord I am
Not out there in the traffic.
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I lie back in my bed and doze
(That’s just my little quirk)
And grimace when I think of those
Who have to go to work,
Like shop assistants, ambulance crew,
And personal retainers,
And radio presenters who
Must try and entertain us.
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Bank Holidays are wondrous things,
These islands of great leisure.
Oh listen how the caged bird sings,
Invoking his great pleasure.
They make me feel supremely blessed,
They let me walk the walk,
But the ones I really like the best
Are when Shels hammer Cork.