Poor Paddy Works on the Software - lyric video

Apparently Moran has been moonlighting again. A recording of this monstrosity, the words of which are somewhere in our back pages. They are also under the YouTube video for convenience. If you like this video, tell your friends. If you don't like it, don't tell a soul, they'll never know. (Ed)

The Leaving of Ballymun

"Two heads are better than one" (S.M.)

Air: Skibbereen*

Oh father dear I often hear you speak of Dub, about
Its coffee smells, its Book of Kells, its billion pints of stout,
The thanks and please, the ocean breeze, and colleens by the ton.
Then tell me Dad what was so bad, you left old Ballymun?

Oh son, I loved my concrete home, its basements and its towers
Till I got the chop from my old job for canoodling in the showers.
My name was mud, my reference dud, my hopes for a rise undone
And that’s the cruel reason I left old Ballymun.

Before I left, was all upset and thought I’d change my mind.
My folks and friends took some offence, and let me in to find
Another boy, some hobbledehoy, had rented my room for one.
I heaved a sigh and said goodbye to dear old Ballymun.

My girlfriend too was bored I knew, and glad to see me go.
Apparently, she two-timed me with a plasterer called Joe.
I got the word and now absurd, what else could I do but run?
And that’s another reason I left old Ballymun.

That you exist, I somehow missed, till you turned up at my door
Ten years hence, with fifty pence and my darling from before.
More plastered, Joe, than plastering, he found out you’re my son,
Then changed the locks and said you pox, get out of Ballymun.

Oh father dear, let us stay here, I’m sorry if I weep.
I’ve made new friends here in Hatch End, and cider is so cheap.
I’ll tell you jokes and quit the smokes. Me ma says you’re the one.
And anyway, we have to stay - there’s no more Ballymun.

--

Stephen Moran

* I didn't like any of the guitar chords I found online for Skibbereen, so I made my own ones that seem to work okay.

In my version:

[Am] Oh father dear [C] I often hear you [F] speak of [Em] Dub, [Am] about

[F] Its coffee smells, its [C] Book of Kells, its [Em] billion pints of [Am] stout.

[F] The thanks and please, the [C] ocean breeze, and [Em] colleens by the [Am] ton.

[Am] Then tell me, Dad, [C] what was so bad, you [F] left old [Em] Bally [Am] mun. 

In original lyrics:

[Am] Oh father dear, [C] I often hear you [F] speak of [Em] Erin's [Am] isle

[F] Her lofty hills, her [C] valleys green, her [Em] mountains rude and [Am] wild

[F] They say she is a [C] lovely land where-[Em]-in a saint might [Am] dwell

[Am] So why did you [C] abandon her, the [F] reason [Em] to me [Am] tell.

In their recording, The Dubliners with Ronnie Drew singing, do it in F#m.

There's Chianti in the Carafe

Air: Whiskey In The Jar

As I was posting bon mots and doing a bit of blagging,

I met a brazen troll, oh and my buddies he was slagging.

I first adduced indiff'rence, elliptically deplored him;

I shared a Blondie classic, then I studiously ignored him.

With me ring dumma tone dumma larf

Whack for my daddio

Give me your addy-o,

There’s Chianti in the carafe.

I deconstruct his bunny, which makes an ugly patter.

I’d chop it into couplets and I’d serve it on a platter.

I called the rubbish po’try, recited it to Emmy.

She uploaded a mashup to a film by Jonno Demme.

With me ring dumma tone dumma larf

Whack for my daddio

YouTube and Vimeo,

There’s Chianti in the carafe.

From Stephen Fry on Twitter a mention made her fortune

And Emmy's billion hits paid for a house in Temple Fortune.

The house she named it Rime Riche, next door to Lenny Henry’s;

And I’m the son-of-a-biche that's left without a single penny.

With me ring dumma tone dumma larf

Whack for my daddio

That's a nice patio,

There’s Chianti in the carafe.

Now some men like the porno and some men like the blogging

And some men get reborn though others rather go out jogging,

But me I like the Facebook, and also love the Twitter,

But the devil take that woman for she left me in the shitter.

With me ring dumma tone dumma larf

Whack for my daddio

And now I have to go,

There’s Chianti in the carafe.

--
Stephen Moran

Poor Paddy Works on the Software

Air: Poor Paddy Works on the Railway

[ANDANTE]

In nineteen hundred and eighty-one

The stripy braces I put on

I put my stripy braces on

To work upon the software, the software

I'm weary of the software

Poor Paddy works on the software

[ALLEGRO]

In nineteen hundred and eighty-two

From IBM to Fujitsu

I found myself a job to do

A-working on the software

I was wearing stripy braces

Setting traces, shifting places

Switching cases, I

Was working on the software

In nineteen hundred and eighty-three

I played my Leonard Cohen LP

I went to work for Her Majesty

On poll tax payment software

I was wearing stripy braces

Setting traces, shifting places

Switching cases, I

Was working on the software

[ANDANTE]

In nineteen hundred and eighty-four

I landed on the Shoreditch shore

Me eyes were red, me wrists were sore

From working on the software, the software

I'm burnt out from the software

Poor Paddy works on the software

[ALLEGRO]

In nineteen hundred and eighty-five

When Billy Gates was only five

When Lady Ada was still alive

I worked upon the software 

I was wearing stripy braces

Setting traces, shifting places

Switching cases, I

Was working on the software

Then came the old millennium 

All I did was sit on me bum

Raking dosh and playing dumb

For fiddling with the software

I was wearing stripy braces

Setting traces, shifting places

Switching cases, I

Was working on the software

[ANDANTE]

In the year of two thousand and one

Poor Paddy's millennium bug was gone

The sod had to give up his coke and rum

And work upon the software, the software

I'm sick to me death of the software

Poor Paddy works on the software

[ALLEGRO]

I was wearing stripy braces

Setting traces, shifting places

Switching cases, I

Was working on the software!

--

Stephen Moran

West Bank carol

O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie!
Above your empty ruined streets
The tracer fire goes by;
Your refugees in basements wait
Indefinitely in flight
From where they fled for many years
By curfew here tonight.

For Jibril born of Mariam,
And gathered up in love,
While people slept, the soldiers kept
Their watch from hills above.
A heavy shell projected sent
From far to mark the birth
Blasted all to bits and rent
A short life from this earth.

How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift inspired!
No kamikaze, neo-Nazi -
Professionally fired.
No ear may hear its coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive it, still
It blasts their shelters in.

Where children pure and happy
Both hate and are reviled,
Where misery cries out to thee,
Son of the mother mild;
Where charity stands watching
And faith holds wide the door,
The dark night wakes, the glory breaks,
And Herod comes once more.

--
Stephen Moran

<< Previous | Next >>

Lullaby of Gaza / Mockingbird

1.

On seeing a picture, not necessarily from Gaza, of an armed soldier hiding in a doorway, with two children in the street nearby, "unicef193-0634 / betty press"

Crazy paving, crazy wall,
Concrete floors. When curfews fall
F-sixteens will come to call.
Rocket bye baby, the cradle will fall;
Down will come gunmen, mothers and all.

Iron shutters, iron gates.
Out of sight, a soldier waits
On girl and toddler, under eights.
The elder with her friend debates
Oblivious to their future fates.

Not the chosen, not the just,
They are children of the dust,
When hovels with no papers must
Be razed in order to adjust
Collateral in a stateside trust.


2.

Hush little baby, take your rest;
Papa's gonna buy you a suicide vest.

And if that suicide vest don't blow,
Papa's gonna make you a bomb to throw.

And if that bomb won't kill someone,
Papa's gonna get you a tommy gun.

And if that tommy gun goes wrong,
Papa's gonna build you an atom bomb.

And if that atom bomb won't blast,
Papa's gonna make you a plague to cast.

And if that plague turns back on us,
Papa's gonna buy you a house of dust.

And then before the sun goes down,
You'll look sweet on each wall in town.

--
Stephen Moran

<< Previous | Next >>

Author's note: When I was writing the second one I forgot that I already had one called "Lullaby of Gaza". So it became a series (of two). S.J.M.

Update: Included in "Day of the Flying Leaves - Selected Poems" (Amazon/Kindle, 2021)

Imelda's song (Don't cry for me, Filipinas)

Air: Don't Cry For Me Argentina

It won't be easy, you'll think it strange
When I try to explain how I feel
That I still need your dough after all that I've spent.
You won't believe me;
All you will see is a balikbayan
Although she's dressed up to the nines,
Who's still just a hostess to you.

I loved George Hamilton, I loved his tan,
Couldn't stay all my life with Ferdinand
Looking out of the windows in the Malacanang.
So I chose thieving,
Putting massive amounts into Swiss bank accounts
But nothing impressed me at all
(Except when we killed Benigno).

Don't cry for me Filipinas,
The truth is I never left you.
All through my wild days,
The People Power craze,
I kept my three thou-
sand right and left shoes.

And as for Ramos and as for Joe,
They never invited me in,
Though at least Ms Aquino
Got out of my way.
They are all dumbbells,
They're not just the humbles
they promised to be.
The answer was here all the time:
You hate them, and only love me.

Don't cry for me Filipinas,
The truth is I never left you.
All through my wild days,
The People Power craze,
I kept my three thou-
sand right and left shoes.

Have I said too much?
There's nothing more I can think of to say to you
But all you have to do is open the museum
And give me back my shoes.

--
Stephen Moran

<< Previous | Next >>

It's a long way from Tipperary

Bless them all, bless them all
The long and the short and the tall
Bless Condoleezza and George Double-U
Bless Saddam Hussein and Tony Blair too

Yes we're saying goodbye to them all
The long and the short and the tall
Goodbye Bin Laden and Mullah Omar
Goodbye to Rumsfeld and jolly Jack Straw

Bless them all, bless them all
The thick and the smart and the droll
Bless Colin Powell and Wolfowitz too
Bless the Ba'ath party and New Labour fools

Yes we're saying goodbye to them all
The long and the short and the tall
Yasser Arafat, Dick Cheney, Sharon and Khameini
Here's up the lot - bless them all

Stephen Moran

* Only the word wasn't "bless", was it? I think it started with an "f". Ed.

The Ballad of Lord Archer

Air: Monto

Lord Archer felt a little sick.
The hacks were up to all his tricks.
He had to put away his prick
Or he was toast.

And so he bid his tart depart
Along with two kay for a start,
Not knowing that the hacks were smart:
They paid the most.

Take him up to Whitehall. Whitehall? Right all.
Take him up to Whitehall.
That will do
For you.

Lord Archer's in the court. All rise!
He swears not guilty on his life.
The judge admires his fragrant wife
And al-i-bi.

Five hundred grand against the Press.
You'll pay to slight our noble guest.
The tart, not fragrant, all oppressed
And made to cry.

Take him up to Whitehall. Whitehall? Right all.
Take him up to Whitehall.
That will do
For you.

To follow Whittington our player
Decided to be London's mayor
But then his alibi unfair
Was undone.

A four-year sentence is decreed.
In open prison, he proceeds
To write his own biography,
Noble Con.

Take him up to Whitehall. Whitehall? Shite hall.
Take him up to Whitehall.
That will do
For you.

--
Stephen Moran