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Poems tagged ‘London-Irish Humour’

Identity Crisis

The tea-leafing young git
Tried to half-inch our convent school’s kit
In The L.C.C dressing room prior to the game
Stood (like us) in absolute stiches of mirth
As a park keeper sniffed a well-seasoned shirt
and from the tag read a strong English name.

I remember answering to W. Smith
Dinny, to R.G. Asquith
Little Francie being P.T. Fortescue
Declan still hears C.S Bates
From close knit family and mates
When we’ve indulged in a few at a do.

If Nelsons are short
Mere slips a bhoys needing kit to do sport
Pray the nuns find a new set of shirts for the team?
Their prayers having miserably failed
The canny nuns still prevailed (and got us out gaol)
By storming a jumble sale, in search of our dream.

In the full-on scrum for team shirts
Sister Louise tripping over her skirts
Entertained a church-hall of chain-smoking hags
Though I’m obviously forever indebted to The Sis
She didn’t have to suffer a joshing as W. Smith
Having refused to remove those English name-tags.

Ah sure the poverty, the poverty
That sense of sheer abject why always me?
A burden through-out life I’ve strived to dismiss
Mind you, watching a recent game on T.V
At fella’s sporting; gloves, bra’s, hosiery?
I’ll settle for close mates joshing me as W. Smith.

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Diplomatic Relations.

Drop a rare old mountain dew
Flask passed twixt a few
Helped keep howling cross field chills at bay
After mass, hastily assembled over The Scrubs,
Few muckers and close bloods
Deemed a proper pukka start to one’s Sunday.

These German students, so they say
Apparently primed for affray in their play
Intended inflicting hurt, right from the off,
Angry screams of, “Oi You! Referee!
Didn’t you see that quare fella kick me”,
Provoking fake angelic postures, or a scoff.

Visiting, The Smoke, on an indiscreet week-end
With her latest in highly questionable dubious men
Dominic’s nan grimaced at every blow he took,
“Holy Mother of J.C, where are yeer specs, referee
How come ye, and yer linesman didn’t see
That big blond galoot, give the child a sly right hook?

I’ve a beady eye on you Blondie
Any more of that, yee’ll be answering to me”,

Dominic’s nan warned the fly Teutonic winger
Whom didn’t seem troubled in the least?
Sporting a smile exposing glistening rows of teeth
Set off by that sign irks all nationalities…the finger.

Approaching respite of half time
Racing along the touch-line
Blonde Adonis seemed a certainty to score
That is, till a sly kick in the shin,
By an old one, enjoying a week-end soiree of sin,
Put the kybosh on, like a deft left to the jaw.

Lying prone on the grass
A discreet kick to your man’s Khyber Pass
Drew banshee like screams indicating proper pain
Helping the poor hurted child to his feet
Dominic’s nan gave his ear a subtle tweak
Smiling at his, hobbling for remainder of the game.

Over plate’s a boiled bacon, spuds and cabbage
Later, on that afternoon, after watching The Big Match
Dominic’s nan, proved her prowess as an able bar-room singer
Her choice in men, might have been a long way off au fait,
Who cares? Sure, tis not every day, your gran provokes affray
As yon German bhoy found out, after giving Dominic’s nan…the finger.

Peace.

Try n stay sage, come what may, and have a right blinding day.

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Eulogy.

Jimmy lived a quiet, quite un-extraordinary life
Deeming his business none but his own
Few drinks of a night, three intelligent kids, razor sharp wife,
Occasional trip back to Limerick…“Me home”.

His recent passing left all of us gutted
and a wry sense of humour sure to be missed
While the tale of the football opponent he nutted
One Sunday morning, had us laughing so much our sides split.

“Seems this stout fella steamed in to a tackle”,
Jimmy’s younger brother eulogised in our local church,
“Intending to maim in a fiercely fought battle
Where some-body’s almost a dead cert to get hurt?

Our Jimmy picked himself up, gave this fella the nut
Left him lying spark out on the sod
Sent off by the referee, after one almighty melee (an a ruck)
Turns out…Comatose Man was a fella of the cloth.

Our mam, stood on the touch-line went radio rental,*
“That effin ref is a no good damn cheat”,
“Said man of the cloth, on realigning his differential
Gumbled he was minus his precious false teeth”

“Jimmy, help that poor priest, find his teeth or I’ll crucify ye”,
“Mam screamed aloud to her crestfallen son
Suffice twenty two players and accursed referee
Held up the game, in the search for false teeth, finding none.

Back getting changed after a fiercely fought game
Our Jimmy and the gummy priest sportingly shook hands
Before going outside, in to the pouring down rain

Where our Pac-a-mac mammy, stood gassing midst both sets of fans”.

“Sweet Mother of Jaysus”, “The gummy priest exclaimed out aloud”,
“Well honestly there’s a relief”,
“Seems after being knocked out, and fuzzily coming round
He remembered a pocket in his cassock held his set of false teeth.

Our Jimmy often laughed out aloud on recalling that day
He was after all…as everyone here knew a bit of a wit
Oh and before the pallbearers cart him away, he left word to say…

“Now do youse believe me…didn’t I tell all a yeese I was sick?”.

Peace.

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Source: https://footballpoets.org/news/poem-tags/london-irish-humour/