Silence now from Bob and Kay.
Their game of chess gets underway.
In her hand, beside her head,
A crystal glass of something red

To dance within her brain and sing,
And bring a fondness for her king,
To ease into an August night
In disappearing evening light.

Playing chess with king and Kong,
And bishops drunk in swinging song.
And Kay's away with little pawns,
Sought by knights on endless lawns.

A chance to make the daisy chains
And break away from God-like brains.
Little birds will fly around
The dazy heads in song-like sound.

Kong will try to climb a rook.
He only wants to have a look,
And see all that there is to see.
A tourist who loves heights, is he.

The pawns like Kong because he's big,
And strong and brave, and they can dig
A man or thing who's not afraid
Of flirting with Death's frightening maid.

And though his flirting with Fay Wray
Suggests that Kong is not au fait
With the modern woman's scheme
Of boats that go to make a dream,

His heart is where his heart should be.
His artless words conceal a plea
For love to fill his empty life,
And someone tall to be his wife.

Another glass of wine for Kay,
Which brings a smile and makes her say,
"The thing about him, the Hong about Kong
Can't be said in poem or song.

"If Kong had lived long, long ago,
A time when we knew how to grow,
When Ireland was the home of giants,
When men were tall and lakes were pints,

"Fionn and co, and Cuchulainn.
Instead of crisps a large sea gull an'
At dinner time a single deer
For each of them, and tanks of beer.

"An Irish Wolfhound for a pet,
No need for fancy food or vet.
Kong would blend in with the crowd.
He wouldn't seem so tall or loud.

"Nowadays we're so much smaller.
Men will worry should they call her
On their phone, or should they wait,
And why does her Chihuahua hate

"The way he smells. His aftershave
Should suggest he's strong and brave.
Wolfhounds never minded smells.
They'd hate red collars with chrome bells.

"Their ancient owners never worried
About their nails. They never hurried
To a summer sale of shoes.
They didn't cry at every bruise.

"It's when Kong should have been alive.
In those ancient days he'd thrive.
More so than us. We'd never last
If we lived in our own past.

"Maybe Shakespeare would have found
A way to say in fine-tuned sound
What Kong attempts to say in noise,
With the aid of fiery eyes.

"They'd get on as well, I'm sure.
They'd talk in words as raw and pure
As any music of the heart.
The Bard could shape it into art,

"A message for King Kong's adherents,
To make sense of his incoherence.
He'd tell a tale of cruellest fate
For Mr. Shakespeare to translate.

"By the Bard, a tragic play,
An ill-starred love for Kong and Fay.
The future days in store for them
Hold tragedy that may well stem

"From families on either side
Who see an ill-matched groom and bride.
Her family will say he's too
Like his cousins in the zoo.

"And his will say or shout that she's
Not fit to reach above his knees.
But love will triumph in the end,
And then they'll die, which may well lend

"An added air of poignancy
To former scenes of hide-and-seek,
When Kong would hide behind the shed,
Which hid one side of his great head.

"But they've departed through time's drain.
Echoes in the mind remain
Of those happy days when they
Could paint deep blue on darkest grey,

"And fill the fields and dales with life,
The hills and vales with Kong and wife.
But it was never meant to be,
Though he was always meant for she.

"Shakespeare might decide to write
A comedy, something light.
There'd be drama if he kissed her.
There'd be trouble playing Twister.

"Her friends might say he needs to shave
His feet and change his name to Dave,
Or something less intimidating.
In him a timid husband's waiting

"To be shaped by subtle hints,
By sculpting hands and common sense.
On dates he'll wear his natural hat
With matching coat, just like a cat.

"He has a bath to wash his ears.
Shampoo only causes tears.
The breeze blow-dries his hair in hours.
He smells of trees and tiny flowers.

"Killing dinosaurs on dates
Could be amongst a girl's pet hates
If she's opposed to eating meat,
And men who fail to wash their feet.

"A restaurant on Friday night,
A table there in candle light.
His hand well might reach out to hers
A sudden smile at what occurs,

"An electric tingle at their touch,
Dismissing thoughts of going Dutch.
It turns the lights on in their brains
Illuminating dreams of lanes,

"And walking hand-in-hand away.
A smile is all they have to say.
He doesn't understand the world,
The concrete wall that's somehow curled

"All around his mighty frame,
A world of staring eyes and fame.
Every step's a chance to fall,
But she's a window in the wall,

"The one remaining patch of light,
The day within eternal night.
Without her he'd be lost today.
At least she'll help him find his way,

"Avoiding ends in falling down.
They've built a pole in Dublin town,
Too slippery for Kong to climb.
These days he couldn't spare the time.

"New estates are built in months,
Houses with mock Tudor fronts.
While Kong would love our ancient days,
We've assumed today the ways

"Of Tudor England at its best.
The Bard would be a welcome guest.
Shakespeare would have liked it here.
He'd fit in without King King's fear.

"His name is Kong. It's not too long.
With the King it's almost song.
And he could sing and find great fame
If only he could say his name.

"So sing a song or king a Kong,
Or knight a pawn and right a wrong,
To recognise the ones who give
Their lives so kings and queens can live."

She stops and takes another drink,
A time to pause and smile and think.
He wonders what she's trying to prove.
He just says, "It's your bloody move."

She looks across towards his side.
No battles yet, no pawns have died.
They're doing push-ups while they wait,
Building biceps, storing hate.

His bishops even look quite mean.
Keane and Quinn are king and queen.
She knows too well it's just an act.
They'd run away if she attacked,

Which she does, and Bob retreats
To get some beer and crisps and sweets.
He's not quite Kong, but that's okay.
She likes his presence anyway.

(If you're not familiar with soccer at this side of the world, Keane and Quinn are Roy Keane and Niall Quinn. Keane is one of our greatest ever players. He recently retired from playing. During his career he was famous, or infamous, for his temper. Quinn is another former Irish player. His do-gooder image led to the nickname 'Mother Theresa'. Keane and Quinn had a falling-out just before the 2002 World Cup, when Keane had the mother of all fallings-out with the manager, Mick McCarthy. Quinn recently became the chairman of Sunderland Football Club, and within the past few days he appointed Keane as his manager. They're the oddest couple since the owl and the pussycat, as someone once said about Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller).