Two Million Irish Blow Jobs

Two Million Irish Blow Jobs

O down in sweet Kilgarvan there’s one Danny Really-Hay. He’d settle for three pints a man, at the end of every day; He spoke about the loneliness and the tractors come to town; But Lord Ross just smiled and said “Piss off! You’re acting like a clown.

Here’s a health to Danny Really-Hay for sthanin’ up for us. The three-glass-trick for every Mick, you has the whole thing sussed! To the ball of malt, we’ll call a halt, good pints will help us all To go home between the ditches, feck them buggers in the Dáil.

O Lord Ross he stood up in the Dáil and this he did declare: “I want a man on every road, from Dalkey cross to Clare. Don’t take no guff, just make ’em puff and bag ’em if they fail, Test every woman, child and man, the healthy and the frail.”

Lord Ross and Enda and the bhoys they went out on the town. Guzzling Chateauneuf du pape and lashing whiskey down. But Noreen and the Ministher, they had tea and bread and jam — “Two million blow jobs?” Ah! They smiled, the whole thing is a scam.

Twelve golfers in a minibus were coming from a do When out steps Sargent Foggerty with blow bags, shining, new, He put his head into the bus and says “What have we got?” Then stood them all along the road and breathalysed the lot.

They want to up the figures, as if 2 million’s not enough, They’ve even got a mantra for to help you with your puff. “Now take a good auld breath me bhoy, and fill the Cruiskeen Lán! Your number 50,000 for we’re baggin’ night and morn”.

O the CSO are up in arms, them figures don’t stack up. Unless each child in Ireland has taken to the sup! We’d better hold a Census now, to sort this whole mess out But the Gardai put a sthop to that — them bhoys, they has the clout!

At the Kilfenora crossroads, an auld buddy there, I saw. He steps out bravely with the yolk, and the force of might and law: You’ve a small sup taken, look here, it’s plain to see!” I was drinking with that Hoor last night, he had more drink than me!

So here’s to Danny Really-Hay, who took the system on He’s not a man to minch his words — they really don’t get on! But when it comes to counting pints, a genius he must be, For he fought the good fight for the likes of lonely men like me.

O come all ye sober Irishmen, a warning take from me. Just take a bloody hackney if you’re going out on the spree. Then stay in bed and rest your head, till every trace withdraw, For two million Irish Blow Jobs have been sanctioned by the law. — © Frank Callery, May 17th, 2017.