The Drunken Spree Of Ritchie Flanagan Poem by Thomas Vaughan Jones

If you’re into drinking Guinness
and you hate an empty glass,
if you’d rather sup a barrel
than trade kisses with a lass.
If you drink for hours and hours,
and you wake up worn and wan
if you need a bit of company
then Flanagan’s your man.

I remember well last year
when we went out on a spree.
There was Monaghan, O’Cassidy,
and Flanagan, and me.
We began the night at Casey’s
where the drinks went down a treat,
until at last, just Flanagan
and me were on our feet.

We staggered from the barroom
while we sang a bawdy ditty,
but Flanagan sang extra loud.
He’d pocketed the kitty
Unhappily, our little noise
brought out a Dublin bobby.
Then Flanagan grew angry,
stating drinking was his hobby

He threatened the policeman.
The poor young guarda ran
with Flanagan in hot pursuit;
a most ferocious man
He screamed abusive language,
the guarda turned quite pale.
He thought he’s found a sanctuary,
he locked himself in jail.

Policemen came from miles around
To join in the fight.
It took a dozen guarda
to subdue our man that night.
His ranting and his raving
would make a mother weep
until a well placed truncheon
put Flanagan to sleep

The next day, in the courtroom,
his head was stiff and sore.
The magistrate looked down and said
“ I’ve seen your face before.
I’m teaching you a lesson
I’m not going to grant you bail.
You’re a dirty, drunken reprobate.
I’m sending you to jail.