One might have thought that time would heal and hatred would subside
But politics, religion and so called patriotism the things that divide
And in Northern Ireland trouble once more brewing and old hatreds live on
And those for peace are left to rue the latest chance for peace near gone.
I have yet to see Joe unhappy he says life is too short for tears
And each evening he's down at his local with his mates enjoying a few beers
In a small group they gather around him in silence as if in a spell
He always has a captive audience as old yarns and stories he tell.
For twenty two years she has lived in Australia and her only offspring is nineteen
But she says she'll go home for to grow old in Manchester fond memories of home with her evergreen
She watches English Premier League football on the t v Manchester United is her favourite team
And from afar she cheers on the red devils to her they are the footballers supreme.
Since I first started writing verse back in late nineteen seventy three
I've written many pieces over six thousand five hundred maybe
Of people and of Nature and of the wild and free
But my rhymes are just not good enough or so 'twould seem to me.
life's so called losers hardly matter that's what Government
The poor bloke found dead on the park bench was addicted to alcoholic drink
His remains discovered by a jogger but they never told us why
It had been a few years since I last heard from Jimmy Sullivan a friend of mine who lives in Millstreet Town
But very lately early in the morning he gave me a ring for to give me the run down
Of the recent happenings in my old home Parish where I took leave of many years ago
Going by what he had said the changes have been happening and if I returned to there now the place I'd hardly know.
I met them in the lake park whilst out walking the Universisty Professor and his wife
In their late fifties or maybe early sixties one might say they had seen a bit of life
As we were walking in the same direction we began to chat as we sauntered along
On a warm and breezy morning in December the magpie on the wattle was in song.
Snowball the white silky bantam rooster he does the things all roosters like to do
Amongst his hens in Steve's and Annie's garden he utters forth his cock a doodle doo
The bigger hens they don't seem to respect him though that fact Snowball does not seem to rue
He sticks close to his white silky bantams each to his own so happens to be true.
So many so called love poems have been written it's so easy for to say that I love you
But few loves last until death do us part and when I say that I mean very few
How many marriages have ended in the divorce courts and how many loves have foundered in a year?
And only bitterness where once were hugs and kisses another love song I do not wish to hear.
I cannot help but feeling that the arrogance of man
Is in some way responsible for the earthquake that cost thousands of human lives in Iran
The doings of Mother Nature many well might say
But for tampering with her the price is huge to pay.