The following is to the tune of "The Humours of Whisky" as sung by - amongst others - the highly estimable Tim Lyons. When not set to words the tune, a double jig, is known as Larry O'Gaff.

Before anyone points it out, I know that the events in the song don't correspond directly with those described by Áine in her original challenge ... but that's the way it goes with me, I'm afraid. I have a tendency to transpose all these challenges back to Ireland and since there aren't any snakes there, I've had to improvise.

Anyway enough apologising ... here goes

It's the job of a cop
On occasions to stop
The man with a drop
Of elect-a-ric soup.
As it courses his veinways
He cruises the laneways
Seeking in vain ways
To regain his coop.
When you see the red light
In the black of the night
Your heart pounds with fright
As you come to a halt.
"Mister I'm thinking
That you have been drinking
For your breath it is stinking
Of Guinness and malt!"

On the evening in question
At a good friend's suggestion
And after digesting
A hearty good tay
I got into my car
(Although not going far)
And to Farrelly's Bar
I straight made my way
Bushmills and porter
From then till last orders
I have to record that
I drunk like a fish
When the evening was over
More steamin' than sober
I fell into my motor
Three-quarters pished!

Home was in sight
When I saw the red light
And me thinking "Oh, shite!
It's me licence for sure"
I called upon Jesus
And other big cheeses;
The dirty polices
I christened them hoors
"Can I help you, thir?"
I decided to purr
But out with a slur
My question did slip
"The aroma of beer
That is coming from here
Gives me good cause, I fear
To suspect you of drink!"

"And besides" on he went
"The alcohol scent,
Your drunken accent
Gives me cause for concern."
"I mutht confeth
To thome trouble with eth-es
The cauthe of thith meth ith
Thomething you will now learn.
While eating me tea
A dirty great bee
Wath flying, you thee
In a thweep round me head.
I hit it a thmack
Thuch a bloody big crack
It lit on itth back
And I thought it wath dead."

"But far from detheeathed
Thith buzzy wee beatht
Produthed from itth sheath
A dirty great thting
And up like a rocket
The thting from hith thocket
He thraightaway thtuck it
Right into my chin"
"Tell that to the judge!
I'll not fall for such fudge.
This car will not budge
Now give me the keys.
Me oul' breathalyser
Will sort truth from lies, sir
You'll be saying goodbye, sir
To your liberty"

Ah come all ye big boozers
Don't become sad oul' losers
Fine words of truth are
"Don't drink and drive"
And if caught out, like me
Enter a guilty plea
Make no enemy
Of the beast from the hive!