Mind yer Burger, Missus!
Dublin, like most cities has become the new home to thousands of seagulls. In fact it is a plague of gullibility. Here is my song on the subject.
(A Song for Our Times)
Oh! A gull got me burger in Grafton Street,
He left me the bread but he swiped the meat,
And the fucker was gone, and I felt put upon,
For the swoop of his wings knocked me offa me feet.
Ah! Says I, Oh the next time I’ll load on the sauce
And he’ll swipe me burger, but at his own cost!
But he made such a mess of me Dunne’s Stores white vest
That me pride, and me poise, and me presence was lost.
In the M&S cafe I sat to observe,
As the gulls took their turns at patrolling the kerb,
And I watched the hoors swoop, and counted each scoop!
Near 300 a day — oh! ’tis they had the nerve!
On the roof tops of Dublin they’re making their nests
And their shiteing on shirts, bras, knickers and vests
At the ole washing lines, the women are crying
As they fuck from a height, these deplorable pests.
From four in the morning they’re screaming and bawling
Every citizen now from no sleep, is wall-fallin’
And they’re dreamin’ up schemes to get rid of the screams,
If it’s not sorted soon, with their guns they’ll be callin’!
O my brother Paul he devised an ole plan
He wired up the roof, has the switch in his hand
And if ere a gull landed, he be dusted and sanded —
But McCarthy’s ole cat got a terrible land!
In less than five minutes he’d cut down the wire
And like Dublin bus, what then should transpire
Along came the gulls, till the roof it was full,
That once was as black as a Belfast used tire.
Now the guano is thick and the roof it is white.
O these ain’t just gulls, they’re factories that shite,
And soon the whole city, that once looked so pretty
Will be drowning in guano — the new urban blight.
O what is the cure for the fuckers we ask
Are the Polis or Corpo not up to the task?
For they’re raiding the bins with their red-spotted grins
And yer drink is not safe, if its not in a flask.
To the Corpo there came a Pied Piper of sorts,
He said he could rid them, with humane resort
He’d need money up front, O his manner was blunt!
But if he succeeded, O what a report!
When they gave him the money, they were quite woebegone,
Trust me, my dear fellows, my word is me bond!
Ten minutes I’ll need, then come as agreed —
When they came round the corner, Ah! there he was, gone!
Gullibility runs in the nation, my dear,
When it comes to the Corpo it gallops, I fear,
On a throwaway trick? Ah! Bejaysus they’re thick —
Ten grand in the red and the reason’s quite clear.
And we still haven’t sorted the plague of the gulls
It’s not pigeon shooting, when you hear them ‘Pulls!’
The new Citizen Army, who some think are barmy,
Have set their ‘Wish’ sights, and there isn’t a lull.
They’re falling like snowflakes around every street,
You can’t walk the pavement for gulls at yer feet.
And now there’s a crisis, and the best of our choices:
Recycle, until your green bin is replete.
— © Frank Callery, August 8th., 2019.
below is the audio file.