Marrying for a summer house
  in Athlone.

She said she has a summer house in Athlone.
I don't know if that's false or if that's true.
  But there's one thing I do know,
  I'll say 'I do' if it's so.
But she'll never hear a sincere 'I love you'.

  I'll say it once or twice
  In my 'I don't love you' voice.
I'll save my 'I love you' voice for the view.

To the Birds.

He sits on his own,
  On his own, on his own.
He talks to the birds,
  To the birds.

He waits for a call
  From the bank about a loan.
He tells the birds about it
  Using words.

He walks across the floor,
  To and fro, wall to wall,
In the dining hall
  Of his hotel.

He waits for someone to call
  And ring the bell in the hall.
But no one ever calls
  And there's no bell.

He has a staff of three.
  For them he has to care.
If he doesn't get some callers
  He'll have none.

And just to avoid confusion
  They're all called Clare.
And to cut down on expenses
  They're all one.

He wonders what to do,
  What to do, what to do,
About the empty rooms
  In his hotel.

He knows he needs to do
  Something new, something new.
He hasn't done anything new
  Since buying the bell.

"I think I have an idea,"
  Clare says to her boss,
"Why not put a sign
  Outside the gate."

Clare wearing glasses and
  A wig that looks like moss
Says, "I think Clare is right.
  You need a bait."

He says, "What do ye think
  About a sign over there?"
He's talking to the birds
  That he just met.

Clare with a fake beard
  Agrees with Clare and Clare.
But the birds haven't decided
  As of yet.

The Speech.

Our member of parliament started to climb
The steps to the stage for his speech.
A little squirrel clung to his leg all the time,
And hung on like a very big leech.

"I've secured funding for so many things,
"For pedestrian lights and foot paths.
"I brought the road and the business it brings,
"It was me who got rid of the rats.

"I'm glad to announce a new tourist centre,
"To be built by twenty-fifteen.
"Where tourists can visit and after they enter,
"They'll wish every sight could be seen."

He listed out things he'd done in the past.
He told us he's not here to boast.
Each of us wondered how long he could last.
The squirrel hung on to its host.

And then a slight change as he told us all how
His critics are now staying quiet.
"They called me a fool, but where are they now?
"They're lost with a cow in the night."

Another half-hour of stories and names,
Of people who'd questioned his mind.
Most of his mishaps and falls he blames
On a file he can't seem to find.

The squirrel was starting to doze off to sleep.
The speech never slowed down at all.
The rest of us sat there and struggled to keep
Our eyes open wide in the hall.

Sleep finally came for the squirrel and he fell.
The speaker looked down with delight.
"Aha!" he said. It was almost a yell.
"And it only took half of the night.

"There's no tourist centre or holiday reps.
"I've just played my very last ace."
He ran from the stage but he tripped on the steps,
And the squirrel returned to its place.

He stood up again and went back to the stage.
His leg and the squirrel went too.
He started the speech that had taken an age,
About things he'd done and would do.

Little Goldfish.

One little goldfish in his very little sea.
Let's call this little goldfish number two.
I don't know his name and neither does he.
He said to the other 'how d'ye do?'

The other, number one, raised his head and said,
"Have you ever seen The Scream by Edvard Munch?"
Number two said he had, then he turned his little head
To watch a piece of food as it sunk.

That wasn't really truthful; he decided to pretend
That he'd seen the painting once or twice before.
But he's never really seen it and neither has has friend.
On the subject of The Scream they said no more.

Two tried to think of something other than The Scream
To talk about before he goes to bed.
The best he could do was 'do you like ice cream?'
So he stared ahead in silence instead.

One little goldfish in his very little sea.
Let's call this goldfish number two.
I don't know his name and neither does he.
He said to the other 'who are you?'

By the Sea.

We'll go by bus and stay all day.
You and I down by the sea.
Or is it 'you and me' I should say?
For you and I it's 'you and me'.

The birds are flying way up high.
The sea is where the sea should be,
Sitting there beneath the sky,
Reflecting blue and bringing glee.

You and me on golden sand.
Two dots beneath the blue above.
Sitting either side of 'and',
On seaside sand immersed in love.

"Look at the horse," she says to me.
"No, my dear. That's a post box."
"It's a bleeping horse you blanking B."
I love her voice and golden locks,

But I'm afraid I must insist
That that's a box for posting things.
And not a horse, unless I missed
A bushy tail or pigs with wings.

For honesty I'll always thank her.
She says some bleeping blanking words.
"You bleeping blinking pretentious blanker.
"You're worse than blanking bleep from birds."

Excuse me for a while or two.

I was right about the post box.
In silence now beneath the blue.
On the bus by sea and rocks.

Now a Ghost.

He lived in pint glasses and media glares,
Or so his political critics would say.
Forty-four years of worries and cares.
The worries of people he dealt with each day.

He lays deceased, to say the least.
To say the most he's now a ghost.
Or a poltergeist, as good as a beast.
He haunts a house and taunts his host.

He breaks the cups and shakes the doors.
He fights with the dog and frightens the cat.
He fills the jugs and floods the floors.
You can see where he sleeps where the carpet is flat.

You'll never get peace in this house of his niece.
Her husband and daughter would like him to leave.
She called in a priest but still he won't cease.
They drank and told stories they'd like to believe.

He likes his drink. They hear ice cubes clink.
It's more out of habit. He never needs food.
A brandy or gin will be gone in a blink.
They leave out a glass for the good of his mood.

He rattles his chains and battles his banes.
He whistles his tunes and bustles his way
Into the rooms; they're caught beneath rains
Of things on the shelves that now tend to stray.

Most people would curse him but things could be worse.
He's not as bad now as when he was alive.
There's no pain in his hip since his trip in the hearse.
He doesn't complain when his nurse can't arrive.

And he still gets the tickets for all the big matches.
He promised the priest a good seat in the stand.
He tries to be careful; sometimes he catches
The things that he knocks from the shelves with his hand.

But if they had a choice they'd rather have mice.
Their ghost is never as quiet as a mouse.
Each night they can hear the same words, the same voice:
"It was me who got planning permission for this house."

Uncle Peter.

Off to visit Uncle Peter,
Never less than entertaining.
Measures drinks out by the litre.
Adds in extra when it's raining.

Hello there, how are you?
Not too bad, come on in.
Love the carpet. Yes it's new.
The old one's sitting by the bin.

A plate of cakes and a cup of tea,
And a 'no sign yet' of drink.
Wondering where his glass could be.
An 'and you'll miss it' blink.

"Why the lack of alcohol?"
I said eventually.
"Why no drop of drink at all.
"Just little cakes and tea."

He sighed and told his story,
Some details I have missed.
Never one to bore me,
But this is just the gist:

Sitting by the fireplace,
  Fire fire fire.
No one there to share it with,
  Foreign maid hire.

Tell her where the bath is,
  Show her how to use it.
Wrap around a towel,
  Damn I always lose it.

Now she's more than just a maid,
Though she helps him make his bed,
For which she's still well paid,
And she occupies his head.

But she's into health and fitness,
Always on the go.
She'll never find a witness;
No one now will know

If he had a little whiskey,
Something very small.
But he said it's just too risky.
Anyone could call.

There's a daily quota now
For drink but not for bread.
He drank as much as she'll allow
To help him out of bed.

I said, "But surely not the wine.
"That's barely alcoholic.
"Wine in kids of eight or nine
"Will make them run and frolic.

"And gin is just a woman's drink,
"Forgotten in a minute.
"And vodka too," I stopped to wink,
"If you put an umbrella in it."

He soon was back to his old high.
He poured more than enough.
He said, "It's down to you, my boy,
"To house the stronger stuff."

A tear of joy rolled down my face.
For him a look of craving.
He opened up a wooden case
Of whiskey he'd been saving.

When she came home she saw him with
A glass like an upturned bell.
With a small umbrella perched in it
And a long red rose as well.

She asked about the drink he had.
"What this, a drink?" he said to her.
He laughed as if that sounded mad
And the rest is just a happy blur.