1. |
The Sean Nos Parrot
04:09
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The brother he was a technician, He lived above in Millisle, When of his own volition Now this one will raise a smile
He acquired a strangest condition That every once in a while He’d break out in a rendition And sing in the auld sean nos style
He used to practice his singing Every morning in bed He practiced in the back kitchen And down in the garden shed
He terrorised all the neighbours Frightened me mum and me dad Drove away all of his girlfriends And every best friend that he had
CHORUS:With his ri diddery dum dy dum, Rye dum diddery di,
With his random diddery dandum, And his Rid um diddery die.
2. Now the brother he kept an auld parrot With plumage orange and blue He bought it of an old pirate Who caught it in Kalamazoo
I told him keeping a parrot was not politically correct The health inspectors will ban it, Says the brother, ‘I don’t give a feck.’
When the brother he practiced his singing The parrot was listening in And it wasn’t very long after that the animal started to sing
Now me brothers singing was drastic There was always a flat or a sharp, But the parrots style was fantastic A natural right from the start
3. Down at the Comhaltas contest The judge said, ‘This is absurd. Really I’ve got to protest You just cannot enter a bird.
When we put it up on the stage The judge fell into a rage How can I ever engage With a competitor locked in a cage
With a copy of the rule book The brother jumped onto his feet Sayin’,’Show me where it says in here That a parrot cannot compete.’
So they called the head referee Who said, I have to agree, This animal here should be free To join in just like you and me.
4. There were singers there of renown, In every possible style, When the judges verdict came down, The parrot he won by a mile,
Then off to the county finals And then the regional Fleadh, Ans finally to the All Ireland In the great city of Ballina.
Says the judge there, I’ve been to Milltown and Dundalk From Boston to Baltimore, There’s more genuine gra in this squawk Then I ever have heard before
The parrot then was elected All Ireland champion for sure And after that was selected For the American tour.
5.Now the parrot began to take notions, Success had gone to his head
He started causing commotions Demanded stretch limos and breakfast in bed
The brother tried to control him, But his efforts they were all in vain,
So I was the one selected, To take the damn thing to the States on the plane.
We were far out over the ocean Drinking gin and champagne
When he started up a commotion,Caused mayhem all over the plane
When the hostess told him to stop it Said the parrot, ‘I don‘t give a heck.’,
And so she called up the bouncers, Who hauled us both out by the neck.
They pinned us down on the floor, Pitched us out the back door, In a second we found, We were hurtling down to the ground
I said, ‘ You stupid auld parrot, Can’t you see were both going to die!’ The parrot said, ‘Haven’t you noticed
Unlike yourself, I can fly.’ SQUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKKKKKK.
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2. |
The Politics Of Milk
03:59
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THE POLITICS OF MILK
1
Twas in the town of Drumlin, in the County Down
There was a grand big meeting of the farmers all around
Who agreed to work together, to establish a co-op
A better way to get their dairy products to the shop.
The idea was accepted with a show of hands
With unanimous approval of those men who worked the land
With such fraternal feeling , it didn’t make no odds,
That half of them were Fenians, and the other half were Prods.
CHORUS:
Tooura a looura looura, tooura pooura lay
Hu kin ye ere day aucht, I’ ye hinny aucht tay day aucht wae.
2.
Then up stood auld Ned Crilly, who said he had to mention
A matter of importance which had escaped attention.
‘When it comes to buying milk, how can housewives take their pick
If they can’t tell which milk is Protestant, and which is Catholic.’
The meeting then decided to avoid communal friction
They’d separate the bottles by devotional conviction
On Protestant farm produce red labels would be seen
While on the Catholic milk, of course, the labels would be green.
3
Now you might think this simple rule is absolutely clear But it wasn’t very long before big problems did appear
When Jim McCann , a Catholic, took his cow in to the mart And sold it to a Protestant by name of Jimmy Smart
When Smart got home his wife said, Can you tell me now, How can you make Proddy milk, when you’ve got a Catholic cow?’
When told by the Committee that his milk would never pass Smart said,’ Although the cow is Catholic, he’s eating Proddy grass.’
4
Then Willy Orr Grand Master of the Orange Order, We caught out smuggling Catholic hay in across the border
Then someone pointed out, that you’re taking a quare chance,When the Roman Catholic rain is blowing in from France
And to compound the crisis the priest at Ballybilk, Had a lady in confession say she’d been drinking Proddy milk
So he drafted out a letter to the Pope himself in Rome, To get official guidance direct from the papal throne .
5
The Vatican committee was alarmed at the suggestion, That the flock here were in such danger of heretical ingestion
Though drinking Proddy milk itself was not extreme, It could lead to Proddy butter yoghurt cheese and cream.
All Catholics should beware the threat of excommunication When adding milk to tea without papal dispensation.
And Protestants take care of the risks that they can take, Of betraying God and Ulster when they order a milk shake.
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3. |
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Why can’t you be a poet like your dad,All this talk of farming’s nothing but a fad, You should stick with rhyming couplets and sonnets, good or bad,
Forget this farming nonsense if you’ve any sense, me lad. If the neighbours ever found out, they’d think we’d all gone mad
Why can’t you be a poet like your dad.
But Dad, I’ve got the farming bug for sure, And there is no known cure., There are hardships to endure, But it’s a life that’s true and pure,
With the irresistible allure Of silage and manure, I want to be a farmer. I’ve never been so sure.
For your father and his father and his father before him, The auld poetry was a living though we had to scrape and scrim
Wore our fingers to the bone, stuck it out through thick and thin, But that’s not good enough for you, Oh no,You’ve got this farming whim.
But Dad, agriculture’s in me soul, Farming is my role, Milking cows my goal , Helping horses foal,
Digging spuds out of a hole, I want to be a farmer, It’s the new rock and roll.
What ever put this stupid farming notion in your head? You’ve been watching too much telly, that’s what your mother said
And those dirty Farming Weeklies she found hidden underneath your bed, And those filthy farming DVDs you keep locked up in the shed.
Forget this farming notion, Be a poet instead.
Dad, I’ll take golden grain and sow it , Over ploughed fields I will throw it, With fertiliser I will grow it, In winter I will hoe it
In summer I will mow it, But could never be a poet., In my heart of hearts I …. I realise it.
And leaving all the hard work to your poor brothers and me, Trudging down to the Hay on Wye literary festival to read poetry for a miserable fee,
And those poxy Fulbright lectures at Harvard University, While you’re prancing around like a prat in some fancy pig sty
With shite up to your knees, Forget this farming nonsense, please!
But Dad, I don’t want to be a poet, or a singer or an actor, I just want to get my kicks ,sitting up upon a tractor
And injecting sickly dry cows with anabolic profilactor, And the women that you get, there’s another factor
With John Deere baseball hat and welly boots I will attract her, I want to be a farmer. It’s the sex factor
Whatever makes you think you’d make a living from the land, This woolly talk of sheep and cows is all very grand,
But there’s no arts council grants for working with your hands., Why can’t you be a poet like a real man.
But dad,I want to stride the fields, with my dog and gun , Have sheep and pigs and hens, And an orchard would be fun,
Where I could walk among long dappled grass and pluck till time and tides are done,
The silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun
8. Well, if that is what you want son, I won’t stand in your way And if this farming lark works out, You might get rich some day.
And when you’re standing there in your great big farming boots, Remember your old dad, and your humble poetry roots.
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4. |
Belfast - July Eleventh
04:19
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5. |
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6. |
Farewell To Erin
05:25
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7. |
The Demon Drink
02:57
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8. |
Scally Shanty
01:52
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9. |
Spitting For Beginners
03:47
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10. |
Banjo Tsunami
04:00
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11. |
The Liverpool Soldados
04:38
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Greg Quiery Liverpool, UK
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