At the local folk club, in fairest London
One pleasant evening in the month of May,
There stood a singer, of Cockney breeding
And his singing fairly took my breath away...

For he had no talent, or sense of rhythmn,
No ear for music, no none at all,
But he sang for ages, went on for pages,
And he sang them slowly, in a Galway Drawl.

He sang of Ireland, as if he'd been there,
He sang of troubles, of war and pain.
He stopped eventually, we clapped politely,
So he stood and sang them all again:

Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely intentional. You know who you are!

LTS