On Owain Glyn's Temperance Club Poem by David McLansky

On Owain Glyn's Temperance Club
I think it cruel
And not too funny
That a Welshman's luck
Runs out with money;
That the naked doxy
Sitting on my lap
Fat and poxy
Smelling of the clap,
Throws me out
With a naval cheer,
'Cause I'm short a pound
For a round of beer;

As I turn to home,
My heart is broken,
She loved not me
Though the words were spoken;
How I wish I were
A man of wealth
And not a married man
Poor born and Welsh.

Irish women
Make better wives
Famous for
Their grandeur size;
Their hearts are bigger,
They're more forgiving
So's their liver,
Our lies are shriven.

So I tell myself
As I stagger home
She'll be honey on the shelf
Once I get her prone. |