Month: Mar 2021

Shirley’s Ode to Troyboy
He looks at me with his mournful eyes
As on the couch he lies
His legs point up to the moon
And his bits gang aft awry

Yes, I’m talking about Troyboy
Indeed, an ode to joy
He’s often left us breathless
As he runs after his toys

But he collects up all his sticks
And guards them with his life
We wouldn’t try to take them from him
We couldn’t take the strife

The years have rolled on for Troyboy
He’s getting a wee bit slow
And his little legs are knocking together
Completely ruining his flow

But he never loses the fight
And still has the strength
to take all the covers
From me in the middle o’ the night

Goodnight then Troyboy
Fae me and Josh
Sleep the sleep of the righteous
And look after your gong
Shirley Costello Gibson

Dan O’Mahoney, you’re the CCTC:
A Marine brought in to guard our seas,
Against marauding bands of life jacketed savages
Who “our green and pleasant lands” would ravage.

Danny, get on your “chariot of fire”
and unleash Britannia’s superior force,
To repel the mighty Armada of the foe,
Paddling over in their tiny boats.

Hail Clandestine Channel Threat Commander,
Get your act together, please do not dander.
Fetch your “bow of burning gold”
But be sure you point it straight and bold.

Your country needs a steady hand,
Our perspicacious Government agrees
That your fight on the beaches of our lands,
Will save us from those Herculean miscreants.

We know that the Ministry for Immigration Compliance,
Will always be there for a handy alliance,
With our Clandestine Channel Threat Commander
And the Department for the salubriousness of Great Britannia.

Shirley Gibson 30.09.2020 copyright

Since this lock doon business started
My Faither’s been working fae hame
Mind, he tells us he’ll sort oot any crisis
Isn’t that what Faither’s are fir?

So last week Mither got into a terrible fankle,
And it wis a’ tae dae wi’ mince.
The butcher told her it hadn’t been hung lang.
So she hung it ower the sink.

My Faither came in fae ben the hoose
Went straight ower tae the sink,
Whaur he found maist o’ his dinner,
Starting tae turn gey pink

I think that we’re heading fir a real bourach,
Says ma Faither tae ma maw.
Mind, we could always add some tatties:
A pot o’ stovies would be braw.

So, the bourach wis prevented,
Through Faither thinking oot the box.
But, he ate the stovies on his ain,
Cause we’d a’ hid fish and chips.
Shirley Gibson 01.02.2021