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Cronedrome Jul 2018
Here where prison is a place we call MountJoy
A young manboy just released
Shoots pool with plastic blue
Rosary beads
And fresh tattoo
And eyes on me
Runs his hand along his hard body
Says you see it done me good
Embraces everyone he meets
He knows he’s gonna keep
With this discipline
He knows that he can be
Anything he wants to be
Oh yes
Anyone he wants to be  
Loving father
Good
Good son
Puppy, shark
Rolled into one
He has a story
Lessons learned
And a new hard body
All hard earned
Feels the tides inside him sing
The tears , the blood
Psychiatry
The library
Emotions men pretend to hide
It all comes out
In the world
On the inside
eileen mcgreevy Oct 2010
The night was fun,
She felt quite drunk,
But the taxi left without her,
She wrapped her shawl,
And shed her shoes,
And started singing out louder.

She walked and sang,
Quite merrily,
So unaware of danger,
A shadow showed,
A figure pounced,
She stood to face a stranger.

Her eyes were wide,
She shrieked with fright,
His knife rose up to cut her,
Her throat gaped open,
And blood flowed downwards,
Her flesh sliced just like butter.

Excitement grew,
He felt the rush,
And moved on to her gut,
His knife took on,
Its own cruel life,
And he continued with his eyes shut.

The moon gave off,
An eerie glow,
The blood tasted just like wine,
Another fix,
For lord mountjoy,
Strolls home to plan the next time....
Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the **** of the Magazine Wall,
  (Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall,
           ****, helmet and all?

He was one time our King of the Castle
Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
And from Green street he'll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy
  (Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy!
           Jail him and joy.

He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and religion's reform,
  (Chorus) And religious reform,
           Hideous in form.

Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?
I'll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,
Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
All your butter is in your horns.
  (Chorus) His butter is in his horns.
           Butter his horns!

(Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt
   on ye,
Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!

Balbaccio, balbuccio!

We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox
   and china chambers
Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.
Small wonder He'll Cheat E'erawan our local lads nicknamed him.
When Chimpden first took the floor
  (Chorus) With his bucketshop store
           Down Bargainweg, Lower.

So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous
But soon we'll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery
And 'tis short till sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited
   company
With the bailiff's bom at the door,
  (Chorus) Bimbam at the door.
           Then he'll *** no more.

Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
The ****** of that hammerfast viking
And Gall's curse on the day when Eblana bay
Saw his black and tan man-o'-war.
  (Chorus) Saw his man-o'-war
           On the harbour bar.

Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha'pence, he bawls
   Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin'fampiny
Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface
Thok's min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker
Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod.
  (Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod.
           He is, begod.

Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil, ye! up with the rann,
   the rhyming rann!

It was during some fresh water garden pumping
Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys
That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey
Made bold a maid to woo
  (Chorus) Woohoo, what'll she doo!
           The general lost her maidenloo!

He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,
For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
Of our antediluvial zoo,
  (Chorus) Messrs Billing and Coo.
           Noah's larks, good as noo.

He was joulting by Wellinton's monument
Our rotorious hippopopotamuns
When some ****** let down the backtrap of the omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers,
  (Chorus) With his rent in his rears.
           Give him six years.

'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
But look out for his missus legitimate!
When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
Won't there be earwigs on the green?
  (Chorus) Big earwigs on the green,
           The largest ever you seen.

   Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!

Then we'll have a free trade Gael's band and mass meeting
For to sod him the brave son of Scandiknavery.
And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
Along with the devil and the Danes,
  (Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes,
           And all their remains.

And not all the king's men nor his horses
Will resurrect his corpus
For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell
  (bis) That's able to raise a Cain.
eileen mcgreevy Oct 2010
The thirst was gripping,
His will was slipping,
A fix would sort him out,
A female ******,
This genius surgeon,
To this faith, he is devout.

The moon shows up,
He drains his cup,
And enters into the night,
The wait seems longer,
He has time to ponder,
How he'll use his doctors knife.

And, look, he sees her,
His need is like fever,
He must be careful now,
Her drunken laughter,
He follows after,
And  wipes his sweaty brow.

A sweep so quick,
And just a *****,
Her neck leaks blood, so slowly,
His eyes close up,
His ego shows up,
Mountjoy leaves temporarily.

Here stands a monster,
Who pounced upon her,
climactic satisfaction,
His work plans grow,
He intends to show,
These girls, are, but a fraction...
CLARYT Oct 2019
The night was fun,
She felt quite drunk,
The taxi left without her,
She wrapped her shawl,
And shed her shoes,
The night was all about her,

She walked and sang,
Quite merrily,
So unaware of danger,
A shadow showed,
A figure pounced,
She stood to face a stranger,

Her eyes were wide,
She shrieked with fright,
His knife rose up to cut her,
Her throat gaped open,
Her blood flowed downwards,
Her flesh sliced up like butter,

Excitement grew,
He felt the rush,
And moved on to her gut,
His knife took on,
It's own cruel life,
He continued with his eyes shut,

The moon gave off,
An eerie glow,
Blood tasted just like wine,
Another fix,
For lord Mountjoy,
Strolls home to plan next time....

(C) eileenmcgreevy@ymail.com  2019
Rob Sandman Dec 2017
Started off simple you were smokin joints with your mates,
14years old hangin around at the school gates,
a juvenile delinquent,little pain in the ***,
a father at 15 grew up way too fast,
the Irish system failed you,kicked you out at 16,
moved in with your girl,a baby raised by 2 teens,
no real education so crime is your path,
tried your hand at a blag+ended up in pats(Irish Juvenile Detention),

So whats the matter sonny? life's not like the flicks,
criminals get caught,so get used to the nick,
but **** it now you're 18 thinkin' you're an O.G.,
and when you end up in the joy(Mountjoy Prison) you say listen to me,
got your apprentices in robbin,sellin poppin off fightin,
feelin like a crime titan,think you're Irelands mike tyson,
do a few more blags court dates count up,
another girl gets pregnant so the problems mount up


"I've seen the needle and the damage done, a Syringe in a Vein is like a loaded gun"

You could get a job,but **** that work's for dopes,
you spend your days dodging court dates,bangin' out dope,
snortin coke with your mates,all hard as nails,
while the real crims sit back and count their sales
all you are is a customer,forget the smiles,
there'll be another fool parted from his money in a while,
your mate johno flipped out from a long coke binge,
now he's sittin in the john o gods(Christian Rehab centre),shivering and cringin',

That'll never be you,you got a real game plan,
got a cousin who's a driver on Securicor vans,
so you hire out a shotgun,on with the bally(Balaclava),
hit the van in broad daylight,and run for an alley,
but guess whats waiting? a Special Branch team(Armed Gardai),
get the **** on the ground! is what they all just scream,
now you're banged up bigtime,a 10yr stretch
got your first bag of gear(Irish name for Smack) from a kid named fletch

CHORUS.
"well every cloud's got a silver lining  these years,
the only silver you see is tin foil for your gear,
you gave your life for a buzz that passed way to soon,
its only now you get to see the dark side of the spoon"



well its release day,Seven years down the line,
three years in remission for good behaviour time
went in the Joy a teenager,comin out a man,
with a habit that's longer than a nuns,*******
went from hash and pills to a sharper doom
your life's over,now you're on the dark side of the spoon

so you slip into the underworld,but no more blags,
robbers don't trust junkies,and your hooked through the bag,

you whine about your bad breaks,how you coulda been big,
cos you're a shadow of yourself man,smack is a pig
you're too busy to contemplate,its rob,rob,rob,
and your arms are fulla craters,so there's still no job,
you got your girl hooked too man,ain't you great,
you look at life through eyes gummed up with hate,
social welfare have put you on a methadone course,
but that ***** just as bad,it just makes you worse,

your lifes flying by now in a haze of drugs,
morphine,Oxy,blueys(******) anything for a buzz,
Skip on a few years...**** what does it matter,
days pass like mist,the gears all that matters
your girlfriends screamin' ,babies long gone,
for both of you the needle sings a sad sad song,
look behind ya - your progress is as straight as a die,
another Irish ****** ****** up your life til you die,


The smack dealers are laughin' ,Politicians don't care,
you're a skinny,pale sweaty robbin' smack nightmare,
you gave away your whole life for the solace of a spike,
it didnt cost 4million,its cheap,it cost a life(the Spire in Dublin cost 4 Million(at least) to *****, and is coloquially known as "The Spike")

who the **** can you blame?,you made your own decision,
when you first creased a vein with a simple incision,
infusion of the drug is all you care about now,
the Dark side of the Spoon,there's no way out now


Well every clouds got a silver linin' but these years,
the only silver ya see is tinfoil for your Gear,
gave your life for a buzz that passed WAY too soon,
life's over now, you're on the Dark side of the Spoon

Chorusx2,fade.
This is a distinctly Irish view of the ******/****** Epidemic,
I wrote it over ten years ago and have lost many friends through Overdoses,Disease and misadventure since then,
I have explained some of the "Irish Slang" in it, but hope that people will take the rest in without needing crib notes!,
I am always available to talk if anybody feels that ANY Drug is getting the better of them,
I offer non-judgemental non denominational common sense advice to all,
If you would like to see and hear The Dark Side of the Spoon put to music with a Slideshow video I put together many years ago here is the link,
please comment and let us know what you think!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=osgodk0H7Ko
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
i came forget what i'm used to doing...
   what's the problem with wiping
your *** in a meticulous fashion?

it used to be something,
other than watching youtube political
commentaries...
and that's when, you little ****,
dried up on the missed focus
of ingenuity
...
it used to be an atypical Sunday
after-affair of the day,
read the editorial, and then the news section...
******, tell that **** reading
a Monday's worth of the Daily Telegraph
on the Auschwitz-like crammed tube
carriages on the London tube
during rush hour...
       at least the Yids traveled across
fresh air... ******* Londoner *******
sardines, crammed into their sweat air-borne
virus cringe... like watching pigs die...

but a sometime of a Sunday came,
and i recanted my old efforts
of being informed...
    who needs to watch these videos
habitually... read a newspaper...
i basically skim all the article from Monday
to Friday anyway, look at the pretty pictures...
but some Saturday, but esp. Sunday?
newspapers become holy...
no, really, there's no other word for it...
the sunday times? on a Sunday?
entertainment of the day...
the article about
         anders behring breivik...
  entitle: a neo-**** attacks with bomb,
gun... and film,
by sarah baxter...
              no rhetorical dialectic point
to consider, for my part,
although...
        if he thinks he's the Knights Templar...
guess who "thinks" he's
the Knight Hospitaller...
   guess what?
          Crusades into Lithuania...
the grand battle of the newly wed
Polacks to Christianity and Rome...
and the Teutonic knights...
my story... not yours...
my inheritance... not yours...
        perhaps why the map of Islamic
terrorism is so much akin
to the map of the bubonic plague?
us Polacks have come to exist in a shared
romance of history from the middle-ages...
we're both been crusaded again...
maybe that's why!
oh... really... **** me!
i... never saw it coming!

  shame my half Egyptian half Iraniaan
friend (father the former, mother the latter)
saw differently...
  too bad...
which means i'm off circuit of playing
happy birthday on the guitar for
other... 22 x 1 day wankers....
       what?!

and now it really become entertaining...
lao che's song blasting into my ears,
about some, komtur...
   a rank in the teutonic order...
       and i finish the Breivik article...
past the editorial, the news review
articles...
   on the same page...

   (a) the GRIP of populism:
it's not the refuge of old white male racists,
Trump and Brexit have plenty of young
and affluent supporters,
  and they're here to stay. Roger Eatwell
and Matthew Goodwin demolish myths
peddled by comfortable elites

(a nutritionist and a successful gambler,
sassy read, it ought to be)

and...

  (b) taming the madness of queen Freddie:
walkouts, a *** scandal and the specter
of Harry Potter taking the lead role:
the new biopic of the band has been
struck by thunderbolts and lightning
for years, reports Tony Allen-Mills...

****, decisions decisions... done!
i'll read the article about the ****** first,
speaking into his grave:
don't you think the gays these days have
become... tame? marriage and all,
and so much in lacking the avenues of
former hedonism... or rather: fun?!
yes, the buggery-artist article first,
since i already covered an overt political
dilemma...

and then onto the main show...
plus i'd be two shakes more down with
the whiskey and mixer...
       how many orders of the crusaders
were there?

i'm asking... ha ha...
because i started to think...
is it more, pathetic to think you're
someone in preserving a culture...
or is it more pathetic to "be"  someone
you're not... like acting...
like Mickey Rourke playing
Hyperion...

     frankly? don't know where
the circus begins, or ends!

now... this is going to be... fun!

we have the Knights Templar sorted,
clearly...
then we have the
   Knights Hospitaller sorted... ahem...
by you know who...
so we're missing...
Order of the Holy Sepulcher...
Order of Saint Lazarus...
Order of Aviz...
Order of St. James of Altopascio,
Order of the St. Michael of the Wing,
Order of Calatrava,
    Order of the Holy Ghost,
"   (ditto the rest)           Aubrac
   "                        Santiago
   "          Alcantara
            "         Mountjoy
"      Teutonic Knights
Hospitallers of Saint Thomas
              of Canterbury at Acre          
"                       Monfragüe
  " Sant Jordi d'Alfama
Livonian Brothers of the Sword
Order of Dobrzyń:
     now that's an interesting one...
Militia of the Faith of Jesus Christ
Military Order of Monreal
Knights of the Cross with the Red Star
" the Faith and Peace
Militia of Jesus Christ
"                Blessed ****** Mary
  " Saint Mary of Spain
"       Montesa
"            Dragon (Dracula, Ottoman Turks
  scenario)
"     St. Maurice
      and some others, associated with
a king named: Alfons -
which in ****** language transliterates as...
****!

oh sure, i get it,
it's infantile... that's why i'm not an actor
in a game of reenacting famous
battles, at some medieval fetish fest
for wearing armor...
but the mere thought?
concerning.... (does squiggly lines
with his hands like a madman) this?
give me the right music...
and merely thinking about, all of this?
certainly more fun to entertain
than being fed, *******,
coming from a screen in a movie theater...
who would have thought...
seemingly... sterile words...
elevated to chess pieces
                when properly agitated.

i can understand why someone would
deem this mindset... infantile...
but... the sand truth being?

that film: three Lions... yeah...
those terrorists? not exactly smart,
where they?
  how the **** this one guy managed
to pull off that attack?
English jihad warriors unite...
but please, please... think it through,
yeah?
  it's like... the dumber you get
the dumber the whole message becomes...
this one guy did a *******
bomb attack... and then a shooting range...
probably practiced with paint-*****...
it's not funny, because it's not
supposed to be funny...
if some sunday times editorial columnist
want to see a movie about
Breivik, and she's named Sarah Baxter...
Jihadi dumb-***** should write
Breivik, endless letters of inspiration
and hope for advice...
    ONE man did, what several dip-*****
couldn't... talk about resolve...

anyway... yeah... Sacha Baron Cohen should
have played Freddie Merc...
perfect resemblance, after Borat...
now for that other article...
the grip of populism...
another drink...
the Highlander soundtrack and a jogging
tickle cackling at:
those ******* Jihadi wannabes -
wolf pack! wolf pack!
******* retards.

oh this beats gorging on political commentary
videos from youtube...
the right music,
and a sunday edition of the times...
it's like Chinese new year...
fireworks, dragons and ****!

— The End —