THE GRISLY MURDER OF JOE FRAWLEY
(Tim Lyons)
(Air: 'The Flower of Sweet Strabane')

I'll sing of Mike-ey Cleary who in this town did dwell;
He worked in Frawley's music lounge, a-a place you all know well.
Joe Frawley was a councillor, full of wit and rural charm,
"With a Mace Food Store in the shop next door—and a ninety-acre farm.

When the week it starts he has cards and darts, on Tuesdays, there's nothing much;
On Wednesdays, there's a disco bar with flashing lights and such.
The local Comhaltas meeting goes wild on Thursday nights,
But it's when the weekend comes around, man, it's really out of sight.

For from bogs and drains, from shady lanes, from the woodwork everywhere,
On buckrakes and in motoring cars they do assemble there
With tin whistles and with mandolins and bouzoukis by the score,
Bodhrans, and bones, mouth organs, spoons and the Portuguese guitar.

I'll also sing of Brídhgín Ring, out the country she did live.
She fell in love with young Cleary for the service he could give.
For 'twas many's the toasted sandwich he slipped free across the bar,
And many's the West Coast Cooler too—in fact, lashings of free jar.

But word did spill, as word soon will, where there's complimentary beer.
A local spy who lived nearby whispered in Joe Frawley's ear:
"Your profits are going down the tubes with Cleary pulling your pints—
They're being given away, for SFA, to the young-one smoking joints."

A-a-and when he heard these dreadful words his face turned a greenish grey;
Unto his lovesick ba-ar man these awful words did say:
"You will repay without delay all the money that you stole
Or it's lose the job without a bob and I'll bar you from the dole."

From shady lanes, from bogs and drains, from the woodwork everywhere
In buckrakes and in motoring cars they do assemble there;
With fiddles there and banjoes too, Paolo Sopranis small and large,
Mandocellos, flutes, Celtic harps and lutes and a flat-bellied, twelve-string blarge.

This happened all on a wet weekend five days before the Fleadh.
She'd gone up to her father saying u-unto him, "Da,
I'm thumbing into town a while to see what I can see
To down the black, and have some crack, and hear some Schitheredee."

A-a-and when she walk-ed in the pub she was ready all for the booze.
Ould Frawley came right up to her and his words did careful choose.
It was at this fair young maiden he then threw the bloody book,
Saying: "You won't get tight in here this night—so FUCK OFF AND SLING YOUR HOOK."

And when she heard these boring words she shed not a single tear,
But swore by all the burning bras from here to Germaine Greer
That she would get revenge on him and slit his slimy throat
And throw his body all in the lake and spoil her Fine Gael vote.

From bogs and drains, from shady lanes, from the woodwork everywhere,
In buckrakes and in motoring cars they do assemble there;
With concertinas rare from County Clare, hurdy-gurdies on the ran by the ton,
And continental types with uilleann pipes, bombards and snare drums.

So-o as he was making silage on th'ould swamp that he called his farm,
It was quite true he had no clue that he would come to harm;
For she crept up close behind him with a Black Diamond banjo wire,
And she strung it tight round his wind-pipe and fecked him all in the mire.

Whe-en the Gardai heard of this their statement it was quite clear:
"We have reasonable suspicion foul play was involved here,
For we found his carcass floating on the bottom of the lake
And those marks around his windpipe a blunt instrument did make."

And when she was accused of it her solicitor he did say:
"My client pleads 'Not Guilty' unto her dying day."
But the judge he roared, "NOT LIKELY!", and his mouth obscured by foam:
"It's round the bend your life you'll spend in a psychiatric home."

Ould Frawley he was buried, in a coffin, a cask or bier,
And the ghost of crazy Bridhgín whispered in his tone-deaf ear:
"I've stilled your life forever, you chauvinistic little shower—
You'll be calling 'TIME!' for evermore where there's never a holy hour."

© Tim Lyons


Jim Carroll