Francis Duggan Poems

He died in an accident that seems sad to say
And in Cullen his remains in eternal rest lay
He lived all of his life in old Lisnaboy
And music and dancing he used to enjoy,
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You will not find much worse sort of people out of the misery of others they financially gain
These so called legal money lenders despite their annual profits of billions they still do complain
That their profit margins should be greater and is there an end to their greed
And in helping the social divide to grow bigger they somehow do seem to succeed.
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Never more to be seen in Kilmeedy though from there he does not lay far away
And he surely did have a good innings that would be a fair thing to say
Dennie McCarthy was in his early nineties when the grim reaper paid him the call
The reaper who sooner or later will one day claim the lives of us all
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In truth he is a very good person though we look at life differently
The things that to him are important are not that important to me
He is quite a religious person and he goes to church on sunday
Like i say we see things quite differently though with me that does seem okay.
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She helps out the misplaced Iraqis, the Iranians and the Sudanese
And the Afghans as well as many others condemned to be boat refugees
The people Australia's Government do not make welcome on their behalf she works tirelessly
The wonderful Melanie Mumford few with such compassion as she.
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I hear there are changes in Cullen and few people there i would know
It has been awhile now Since I've been there perhaps twenty Summers ago
The babes then are now young men and women and the Seasons they come and they go
Yet through the old fields by the Village the Araglen to the Blackwater flow,
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Upon your great life journey even in your own Hometown
For everyone that builds you up there is one to drag you down
To say so much may sound negative or some may see it that way
But you lose some for to gain some and such is life they say
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In my wild flights of fancy i return to the hill
And i hear the distinctive babble of the clear flowing mountain rill
That to the bigger river in a great hurry flow
By the old wood down the high fields and by many a hedgerow
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So few of us of sin are unpolluted
And so few of us 'twould seem are free of taint
You will not travel far to find a sinner
But in your travels you won't meet a saint.
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I often think of him that unhappy man at peace he now does lay
He had a mental illness some have been known to say
He often flew into an angry mood over something that seemed small
At times it seemed the poor bloke did not seem that well at all
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