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Thoughts and memories…

6 Feb

Just thinking back to late last year
The memories still vivid…
But had I missed the Dublin gig
My God, I’d have been livid!!
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But I was there, a magic night!
And one I’ll always treasure…
And yes, the one and only Rob
Is still my guilty pleasure!
**
I know I’m moving on in years
In fact I feel decrepit!!
But that won’t stop that yearning lust,
Nor will I bloody let it!!
**
I can’t describe the yearning lust
That grips me when I think
Of Rob, his smile, his laugh, his eyes,
His sexy little wink…

for you

The birdies on his tummy
Are forever in my mind,
But it’s what he’s hiding further down
That I would like to find…
**
That night last year in Dublin
Made all my dreams come true,
Well nearly all, I’m saving one…
Ahem, it’s way too blue!

To Scrummy & Carnspindle

True Robbie friends will understand
Just what it meant to me
And my friend Scrummy Mummy
As we fought the urge to pee!!
**
Our troubles were forgotten
As Rob sang Eternity…
So beautifully, word for word
For Scrummy and for me.
**
All I can say is thank you Rob
For that night last September
You spoke to me and sang to me
A night I’ll sure remember…

that smile

I know you’re coming home soon Rob
To honour your commitments,
So now I’ll ask you one wee thing…
Can I see your equipment??
**
I know, it’s rude, can’t help myself,
It’s lust, it’s ever present!
If you don’t ask, then you don’t get…
My lust for Rob’s incessant!!!
**
I’d best go now, I’ll leave it there
Sorry if I was rude…
Can’t help it, when I think of Rob
My thoughts are somewhat crude!
**
So if you are still reading this,
Thank you for your attention!
Please leave a comment down below…
Next time you’ll get a mention!
**

My Old Belfast

27 Jan

belfast-by-night_2092241b

I’ll speak to you, dear stranger, if you really want to know,
So listen , and I’ll tell you why I love this city so.
Belfast is an Ulsterman with features dour and grim,
It’s a pint of creamy porter and a Sunday morning hymn;
The dingy little café where they serve you dainty teas.
It’s up the road to the anchor, for lots of vinegar on hot peas.
**
It’s a banner on July the twelfth, a sticky toffee apple,
A righteous little gospel hall, a Roman Catholic chapel;
‘Twas a paper boy shouting “telly, sixth”, a piece of apple tart,
A fry upon a Saturday, or a coal breek on a cart.
Do you mind a Corporation gas man, complete with bowler hat,
A wee shop at the corner, a friendly bit of chat.
**
An oul lad in a duncher, the woman in a shawl,
A pinch of snuff, a tattie farl, a Loyal Orange Hall.
The tobacco smell in York street, a beg of yella man,
An Easter egg that’s dyed with whins, a slice of ormo pan.
The wee lad with spricks in an oul glass jar,
The preacher at the customs house, or an old Victorian bar.
**
Mud banks on the lagan when the tide is running low,
The men collecting refuse , bonfires in sandy row;
A bag of salty dullis, a boul of Irish stew,
A goldfish bought in Gresham Street, a preacher at the queue.
It’s a portrait of King Billy upon a gable wall,
A flower seller on a stool, outside the city hall.
**
A half moon round the door step, a polis man on guard,
A man whose crying “delf for regs”, a little whitewashed yard.
It’s the Mays market on a Friday, the ships lined at the docks,
It’s a shiny polished fender, a bunch of green shamrocks;
It’s herrings fried in oaten meal, with a drink of buttermilk;
It’s a snowy linen handkerchief as soft as finest silk.
**
O’Hara’s bap with country butter, a dander round the zoo,
A climb up tough Ben Madigan to get a splendid view.
It’s a bunch of savoury scallions, a plate of buttery champ,
Hopscotch on the footpath, a swing around a lamp.
Delf dogs on the mantelpiece, the wee man from the pru,
The chimney sweep on his bicycle, coming to do the flue.
**
The ever present vista of the hills of Castlereagh,
The deathless hush on Saturday when footie teams play away,
Killarney’s lakes and fells, on the bells of the assembly hall,
Spikey broken bottles stuck on the backyard wall.
It’s bacon boiled with pamphrey, served when piping hot,
With skerry spuds, balls of flour, cracked laughing in the pot.
**
It’s the smell of mansion polish on the lino in the hall,
Sunday school excursion, a treat for one and all;
It’s the islandmen who build great ships that take us far to sea,
It’s S.D. Bells in Ann Street where they sell the finest tea;
It’s fish and chips in paper, on a Friday from Johnny Longs;
The Sally Army Band on Sunday to save the sinning throng.
**
It’s a wee walk up the Lisburn Road and back by the Malone,
The Albert Clock in High Street with its rich and mellow tone.
It’s a Barney Hughes hot cross bun, a canary in a cage,
The old men talking in the park of a past and better age;
It’s the sharp expressive dialect of everyone at large,
A ton of coal on the lagan a floating in a barge.
**
It’s wemen on the windystool when the summer sun shines down,
A “v” of apple tattie or a wee race into town.
It’s a needle to an anchor in Smithfield’s famous mart,
I think I’d better call a halt before I break my heart.
And that’s the answer stranger and now I’m sure you’ll see,
Why Belfast is the only place in all the world for me.
**
Based on an original idea
By Bill Nesbitt

**

This is another poem I came across recently.  It’s a great account of Old Belfast, and some of the things mentioned in it will only be understood by folk from Belfast! Enjoy.  I won’t be taking the credit for this one either, though I’m not sure who wrote it.  If anyone can help in that regard, please leave a comment…

The Ballad of William Bloat

27 Jan

 

William Bloat

In a mean abode on the Skankill Road
Lived a man named William Bloat.
He had a wife, the curse of his life,
Who continually got his goat.
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on
He slit her bloody throat.
**
With a razor gash he settled her hash
Oh never was crime so quick…
But the steady drip on the pillow slip
Of her lifeblood made him sick.
And the pool of gore on the bedroom floor
Grew clotted, cold and thick.
**
And yet he was glad he had done what he had
As she lay there stiff and still,
But a sudden awe of the angry law
Struck his heart with an icy chill.
So to finish the fun so well begun
He resolved himself to kill.
**
So he took the sheet from his wife’s coul’ feet
And twisted it into a rope,
And he hanged himself from the pantry shelf,
‘Twas an easy end, let’s hope.
In the face of death with his latest breath
He solemnly cursed the Pope.
**
But the strangest turn to the whole concern
Is only just beginning.
He went to Hell but his wife got well
And she’s still alive and sinnin’,
For the razor blade was German made
But the sheet was Belfast linen.
**

By Raymond Calvert

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I learned this poem by heart when I was a child, and I used to recite it often. I can still remember every word, and believe me, I’m no longer a child. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have for all these years…

A Typical ‘Norn Iron’ Summer…

22 Jun

Oh thank God that it’s Friday today!
Been a long week, now rain go away!
It’s supposed to be summer
This weather’s a bummer
Think I’ll book me a wee holiday!

**

Some photos for you…

17 Jun

For a little change, and instead of a Limerick, I thought I’d share some photographs with you.  One of the things I would love to be really good at is photography.   In the meantime here’s a few I made earlier…

Taken at the Ulster American Folk Park

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