This is a beautiful "Barry Hodges" poem.*

Ah, sweet memories of that night in Blarney
In the stout-soaked suburbs of ould Cork City.
How clearly through the mist of alcoholic memory
I recall how we all piled out of Johnny's bar at closing time
****** as a load of proverbial ******* newts;
'Where to now me boys, which bar's still open?'
Shrieked spiflicated Sean O'Shannon
(that's notorious sixteen pints an hour Sean,
the man who won Strictly Come Boozing twice)
As he tottered over to his Pa's new BMW convertible,
Lucky ****** that he is to be son to a Fianna Fáil MEP,
And one not adverse to trousering a Euro or two.

'Sean, me oul' potato, de ye think ye should be driving
With that record-breakin' skinful o' stout
I just seen you put away down your greasy gullet,
Not to mention the quadruple whiskey chaser?'
Enquired loopy Liam O'Lephrechaun as he leaned over
And puked up another gallon of warmish Guinness
Over yours truly as I rolled helplessly in the Ballygrohan road
To the amusement of the gawping bystanders,
Bearing in mind there were a good dozen gobbets
Of half-digested pork scratchings in the froth
Which was causing havoc with my apparel.

So without another feckin' word being spoken
My dear drinking companions and ***** buddies
Left me prostrate and clambered gaily into the waiting car
And roared off into the enchanted Gaelic night;
Singing and smoking themselves silly simultaneously,
So full of the joys of life and the blessed bottle.
And then some ****** stupid American tourist
(doubtless dressed in hideous checked golfing trousers
with a backwards-facing baseball cap on his ugly head,
not to forget his overweight wifey crammed into the front seat
just like a huge white bloated fat-faced hippo),
Came round the next corner in a clapped out rental car
And the two of them got sent to Kingdom-sodding-Come
With a terrible metallic crash which destroyed them completely.

'Oh begorrah and *******, would ye just look at the mess
The feckin eejit's made of me Daddy's Beemer,
And it's his pride and joy so it is to be sure!'
Cried Sean O'Shannon in an alcoholic rage,
As he contemplated the largest insurance claim
In the County Cork for the past six decades,
(at least the largest legitimate one anyway).
Whilst I was trying to get my hipster pants down
To avoid filling them up with beery diarrhoea
Brought on by my involuntary bursts of joyous mirth,
(bejasus, 'twas the second time in the space of a single week
and my new girlfriend was getting a bit fussy about hygiene
bearing in mind she was thinking of taking the veil).

How fortunate old Father Tucker and Garda Sergeant O'Toole
Could both (when they'd sobered up sufficiently)
Testify later from their secure vantage point
In the rear compartment of a nearby parked hearse,
(where they were having a ******* with Deidre,
the filthiest wee **** in the whole South-Western counties)
That the accident was not dear Sean's fault at all, to be sure,
As the other stupid sober yankee ****** was driving at 75
On the wrong friggin' side of the ******' street
Or probably in the middle, come to think of it.
'Sure but Sean's the best driver this side of the Blarney Stone,
And there's no way himself would ever drive under the influence'*
They agreed sagely before going off for another jar or two
And maybe a double knee-trembler with Deidre's fat sister,
One up each of her gaping hair-rimmed orifices.

One of Barry Hodges' (aka Edna's)  charming "Memories" poems

I was in the office with my colleague plump Bet
[totally one of the filthiest ***** I have ever met,
a woman so indiscriminate in selecting a bloke
that no one could be ugly enough to miss out on a poke]
When we heard the news about the Twin Towers attack,
And dear Betty was seized laughing, an aphrodisiac
So fervent it resulted in her gobbing out a lump of phlegm
Green and hideously noisome, a truly lovely gem;
"Splot"* it went onto the floor, lying there reminiscent
Of a frog hit by a passing ten ton lorry laden with cement.

I recognised the symptoms of her desire unfolding
Only too well; I knew that when she got really going
With a frenzied bout of combined giggling and regurgitation,
Only one thing could bring her back to cruel reality: mass copulation.
Thus you will not need to be a polymath to realise and know
That what fat Bet required was to be ******, fast not slow,
By at least half a dozen strong hairy men of lengthy measure
And preferably up her fat ******* for max sensual pleasure,
Whilst she doled out ******* to anyone who offered
To risk their ***** in her mouth so kindly proffered.

Thus it came to pass that I rushed through the corridors
And yelled out to one and all "Betty's got the ******",
Whereupon every red-blooded chappie in the office
[including the one-legged dwarf printer Smelly Boris,
he of the infamous wart-encrusted, donkey ****]
Dropped what he was doing and rushed to the fray headlong
Eager to get their hands on waiting Bet, without fear,  
To give her one up her quivering flabby rear
Before it got too well-stretched, with gape and sag,
Like an old, empty, recyclable, inverted shopping bag.

So, we turned on the TV set to keep an eye on
All the happenings in distant Manhattan
And to keep Bet's state of excitement on the ball;
Dear reader, if anyone ever asks me "Old chap, do you recall
Where you were when the WTC came down?"I can't forget
That, eager to get stuck in, I had just got my turn with waiting Bet,  
And seeing I was twelfth in line to give her a good poking
Her ***-hole was well and truly greased for action, O 'twas soaking.
In conclusion, my hearing was seriously damaged by her sublime
Multi-decibel screams of lust. Begorrah, but I had a grand old time.

tis time
said the elf in my ear
tis my time of year
unpack the baubles
the lights,
tinsel
and gear
the merryest of merry
times is near

said I to the elf
get back on tne shelf
nay get back in that box
good gosh and begorrah
calm down your striped socks
it is five  in the a.m.
December the 1st

said the elf, in my ear
I know the time
I let you sleep a whole
four hours and 59 nine minutes
over the strike of my first happy day

so now
get your great *** into gear
this is the only time  I see
the otherside of the box
after months locked down
so get it together mother dear

hang the lights
and let them twinkle
place the tree and
smell the pine needles
and the faint
odour of cat ******?
watch them as they shed
hang the baubles that sit
differently to how they
looked in your head
throw tinsel at that sucker
till it glows and shimmers
knowing that stuff gets every where
even  into the cats stomach and bed

bring on the cheer ,bring on the glee
bring out the angels, the santas, and me

start buying presents
and wrapping  them furtively
have the discussions about
what to buy for those less near
buy the cheap and nasty,  or
the  credit card dear
buy the simple or make the  stuff
or simply divert payments to next year
as if we mostly don't have
more than enough

remember those gone and those left behind
keep them close to heart and to mind
think of those with out resource or recourse
make  some adjustments in order to be kind
and give away joy to  some you don't know
could well  become their reason to stay ...not go

come on said the elf it is time we began
got to get ready, spread a little love accross
your patch of this land, don't be a grinch,
a scrooge or sadsack,  you gotta have
the big jolly-mans  back

and while we are here
conversing and such
remember  the reason
for all this fuss,
doesn't matter,
the religon, the caste
or the creed..
as this time approaches
take moments to reflect
upon this years closing
and hope with joy
and no fear
for love to conquer all
in the future year

said  I to the elf
yammering away in my ear
well said  young  chap
time to get on my good cheer

Oh, to be in Knocknagree, where the beer is cheap,

and the women are free.

You can travel all over Ireland,

but seldom will you see,

The Lakes  and Castles, round Knocknagree.


Wild Mountain Hares, traipse through the street,

on their way to the Hanging Babylon Gardens,

Where a tress of hair, from a Princess,

the locals in secrete keep.


Darby O' Gill and the little people,

built Tigeens (Houses ) near the ' Rainbow's Wishing Stream ',

But the County Council put property tax on them,

and put a full stop , to their little Dreams.


  By Holly Barrett

Oh, to be in Knocknagree, where the beer is cheap,

and the women are free.

You can travel all over Ireland,

but seldom will you see,

The Lakes  and Castles, round Knocknagree.


Wild Mountain Hares, traipse through the street,

on their way to the Hanging Babylon Gardens,

Where a tress of hair, from a Princess,

the locals in secrete keep.


Darby O' Gill and the little people,

built Tigeens (Houses ) near the ' Rainbow's Wishing Stream ',

But the County Council put property tax on them,

and put a full stop , to their little Dreams.


  By Holly Barrett