I say, you chaps ... I thought it was time some fine mellifluous, edificational poetry was declaimed for the multitudes.

Hence this ode, for a dear, dear friend. Now forced, alas, to live at a distance from Grannuaile, from Kitty Mavourneen, from the Sean Bhan Bhocht, from the Star of the Sea, the Gem of the Roe, The Rose in the Heather and The Light Of The World.

He is big, plays guitar
In a "céad míle fáilte" bar
With a nick-nack-paddy-whack
Thinks he's one of us
But he's never burnt a bus

Hairy beard on his face
Bet he wouldn't stick the pace
If he nick-nack-paddy-whack
Drank a rake of buck
Bet he'd boke the whole lot up

Never sat by the man-made lakes
Buckin' purple Tennents down his bake
With a nick-nack-paddy-whack
Just as I had feared
Too busy growin' a ginger beard

He is older than me da
Bet he'd fancy my oul' ma
With her nick-nack-paddy-whack
Wabbly double-chin
Big buck teeth and hairy shins

Thinks we care, aye, as if!
Give us a bang on thon there spliff
With a nick-nack-paddy-whack
Bate your bodhrán drum
Then ram the bater up your bum