Hell No! We Won't Go! (Well, actually, we will go on the Protest Poetry Bus)

So, this weeks Poetry Bus task is to write a protest poem. Watercats has set the task, and had asked us to only write four lines. I got so mad writing my poem, that it got a little longer... I also don't think I got the rhythm right *(as requested) but again, I got a little carried away.

Here it is...

Politicians and Bankers Can Kiss My Angry Irish Ass.


The feckers took my money
they spent it on houses and cars
so now I'm stuck in a country that's fucked
and not one of them bastards's behind bars.

They gave the jobs to the boys
they frittered the money away
So now my kids have no future
and the best and brightest can't stay.

So rise up my brothers and sisters!
Lets us roar and scream and shout
Let us tells those puss filled blisters
That we've finally found them all out

We're burning their homes to the ground
we're salting the earth where they live
we're reclaiming this state for the people
And we're not in the damn mood to forgive.

I did actually manage to full fill the brief with my first attempt - only four lines - but I'm not sure if it is strictly protest? But hey, since I wrote it, here it is...

They tell us not to do it
that killing is a crime
but behind the cover of bench and bar
they're doing it all the time.



Well, after all that vitriol and spleen venting I think I need a drink.


(*am aware I, in fact, completely ignored the rhythm, rhyming scheme requested!)

Hell No! We Won't Go! (Well, actually, we will go on the Protest Poetry Bus)

So, this weeks Poetry Bus task is to write a protest poem. Watercats has set the task, and had asked us to only write four lines. I got so mad writing my poem, that it got a little longer... I also don't think I got the rhythm right *(as requested) but again, I got a little carried away.

Here it is...

Politicians and Bankers Can Kiss My Angry Irish Ass.


The feckers took my money
they spent it on houses and cars
so now I'm stuck in a country that's fucked
and not one of them bastards's behind bars.

They gave the jobs to the boys
they frittered the money away
So now my kids have no future
and the best and brightest can't stay.

So rise up my brothers and sisters!
Lets us roar and scream and shout
Let us tells those puss filled blisters
That we've finally found them all out

We're burning their homes to the ground
we're salting the earth where they live
we're reclaiming this state for the people
And we're not in the damn mood to forgive.

I did actually manage to full fill the brief with my first attempt - only four lines - but I'm not sure if it is strictly protest? But hey, since I wrote it, here it is...

They tell us not to do it
that killing is a crime
but behind the cover of bench and bar
they're doing it all the time.



Well, after all that vitriol and spleen venting I think I need a drink.


(*am aware I, in fact, completely ignored the rhythm, rhyming scheme requested!)

Dawn of the Bed

So, Mr Oub is watching some zombie apocalypse tv programme at the moment. I don't like zombies that much - what can I say, I'm a bit undeadist - so I thought I'd post a little something on my blog and avoid the moans of 'bbbbraaaains' and 'ooouuuuuuuugh'.

And everything else Mr Oub has to say for himself.

Boom, boom.

It's Friday night, there really isn't a lot of stuff going on here. I could be out in the pubs of Dublin with a bunch of politico friends of mine. They're made up of people one step removed from the action... wives, cousins, ex-partners of TDs, that sort of thing. The night out was planned as an evening to celebrate the end of the election and an opportunity to point and laugh at the Fianna Failers among us. You can imagine, I am sorry to miss that opportunity.

That said, the zombies onscreen are doing a pretty passable impression of The Fianna Fail party, so I'm not missing that much.



So why am I sitting here on a Friday night eating some marmite toast and drinking decaf tea (rockkkkkkkkkkkk'n'rollllllllllllllllll!) and wittering on to my mighty blog audience of two? (Hi mammy and daddy!)

Because that naughty naughty baby has me even more tired!


'Never!' I hear you cry.

'Not possible!' you shriek.


Yes. Because, you see, she has Ninja Colic. This is no ordinary colic - it doesn't happen reliably in the evening, last for a few hours, drive you mad, then go away until tomorrow. No, this Ninja colic leps out at you when you least expect it! 6am - 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!' 11am 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! 3pm 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah' and then, just to fuck with you, in the evening 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!' And never at the same time twice. And it skips some days altogether. You think it's gone, and then, out from behind the curtains it jumps! 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!'

All this should really have driven me to the pub, not kept me away.

Hmmm.

Now, you know, seeing that all written down, I'm wondering, why exactly am I at home?

Sigh.

Zombie show is over. Mr Oub has fallen asleep. Baba is doing a passable impression of a good baba asleep on his chest.



We're going door shopping tomorrow.


Be still my beating heart.

Dawn of the Bed

So, Mr Oub is watching some zombie apocalypse tv programme at the moment. I don't like zombies that much - what can I say, I'm a bit undeadist - so I thought I'd post a little something on my blog and avoid the moans of 'bbbbraaaains' and 'ooouuuuuuuugh'.

And everything else Mr Oub has to say for himself.

Boom, boom.

It's Friday night, there really isn't a lot of stuff going on here. I could be out in the pubs of Dublin with a bunch of politico friends of mine. They're made up of people one step removed from the action... wives, cousins, ex-partners of TDs, that sort of thing. The night out was planned as an evening to celebrate the end of the election and an opportunity to point and laugh at the Fianna Failers among us. You can imagine, I am sorry to miss that opportunity.

That said, the zombies onscreen are doing a pretty passable impression of The Fianna Fail party, so I'm not missing that much.



So why am I sitting here on a Friday night eating some marmite toast and drinking decaf tea (rockkkkkkkkkkkk'n'rollllllllllllllllll!) and wittering on to my mighty blog audience of two? (Hi mammy and daddy!)

Because that naughty naughty baby has me even more tired!


'Never!' I hear you cry.

'Not possible!' you shriek.


Yes. Because, you see, she has Ninja Colic. This is no ordinary colic - it doesn't happen reliably in the evening, last for a few hours, drive you mad, then go away until tomorrow. No, this Ninja colic leps out at you when you least expect it! 6am - 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!' 11am 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! 3pm 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah' and then, just to fuck with you, in the evening 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!' And never at the same time twice. And it skips some days altogether. You think it's gone, and then, out from behind the curtains it jumps! 'Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!'

All this should really have driven me to the pub, not kept me away.

Hmmm.

Now, you know, seeing that all written down, I'm wondering, why exactly am I at home?

Sigh.

Zombie show is over. Mr Oub has fallen asleep. Baba is doing a passable impression of a good baba asleep on his chest.



We're going door shopping tomorrow.


Be still my beating heart.

Pancake Bus!!

So, to the PoetryBus challenge!

We had to write an ode to pancakes in the persona of a poet of our choice... I decided to run with a egg and flour homage to Dorothy Parker.


Pancake

Honey rots teeth;
Nutella equals anaphylaxis;
Syrup too sweet;
Banana too good for us;
Blueberries aren't traditional;
Savoury's a bore;
Chocolate isn't nutritional;
I guess its sugar and lemon once more.


For those foolish enough not to be familiar with the wonderful Ms Parker, this is the poem I am pathetically, inadequately attempting to ape...

'Resume'

Razors pain you; 
Rivers are damp; 
Acids stain you; 
And drugs cause cramp; 
Guns aren't lawful; 
Nooses give; 
Gas smells awful; 
You might as well live. 

Dorothy Parker

Pancake Bus!!

So, to the PoetryBus challenge!

We had to write an ode to pancakes in the persona of a poet of our choice... I decided to run with a egg and flour homage to Dorothy Parker.


Pancake

Honey rots teeth;
Nutella equals anaphylaxis;
Syrup too sweet;
Banana too good for us;
Blueberries aren't traditional;
Savoury's a bore;
Chocolate isn't nutritional;
I guess its sugar and lemon once more.


For those foolish enough not to be familiar with the wonderful Ms Parker, this is the poem I am pathetically, inadequately attempting to ape...

'Resume'

Razors pain you; 
Rivers are damp; 
Acids stain you; 
And drugs cause cramp; 
Guns aren't lawful; 
Nooses give; 
Gas smells awful; 
You might as well live. 

Dorothy Parker

Bad Trip

Grumpy day today.

I had to take a trip into town. Where once this was a treat - when I was a young slip of a thing - now I am old and curmudgeonly and it's just a pain.

I was picking up passports. Three out of the four monsters needed documentation. I am surprised klaxons didn't sound and red flashing lights didn't spring to life when I submitted their applications... should they be on some international watch list by now?



Thankfully I was able to go into town with only one of the mites in tow, all the rest in school - unlike when I brought the applications in. For reason, now flown from my brain due to post-traumatic stress disorder, I had to go in with Baby Oub (Ver 2.0) and T'Oub when doing the drop. Toddlers love big barren waiting rooms that have no entertainment and a lot of waiting. And babies like to cry for the entire duration of your stay. (As do mammys).

It was horrible. And when I got to the counter? Yes, you've guessed it - they weren't happy with the forms. Cause the eldest Oub child - aged 10 - hadn't signed his name on the form. You know, my signature at ten was most definitely my bond and certainly hasn't change a jot since then. But hey, if they wanted it we would have been more than happy to provide it. Only we were told a parents signature would suffice. Arse anyone? Elbow perhaps??? Gaaaahahahaha.

So, in I had trudged a second time, forms carefully signed by eldest Oub (for heaven's sake he printed his name he so didn't know what a signature is let alone actually have one!) and had to bring in the two youngest again. There was more tears this time - all mine - and more waiting. I was fooled into a false sense of security by the fact that there were only two ahead of me in the Q. Of course what I had failed to realise was that my queue was in fact inhabiting a rip in the space time continuum where time had no meaning and it moved as slowly as a Hollywood actor playing a presidential bodyguard throwing himself in front of an assassins bullet. (About as long as that sentence for example...)

But we got there eventually. They decided to issue me a reprieve and deigned to be happy with the forms I pathetically proffered to them, face damp, eyes blotchy and swollen, snot dripping.

I was to return on the 1st of March and collect them.

This morning.

They perhaps were thinking of the 1st of April. Cause like a bloody fool I expected them to be ready. I arrived, 10am, only one little baba this time, gravy! No one in the queue, extra gravy!! 'Hello mister passport guy!' I said - I even actually smiled at him. "Can I have my passports please?" I beamed.

"Er, they're on a truck right now. Can you come back at 3.30?" he said. Without even the decency to look ashamed. Bastard.

After the shuddering and twitching had stopped I stared at him. I considered yelling. I considered climbing up onto the counter and banging my bare fists against the perspex divide that was the only thing at that moment saving his life.

But in the end, I just said 'No. I cannot come back at 3.30."

They had won, they had finally defeated me.

So, what do you do in these circumstances?

Yes, go off and get yourself a dirty great big fry! I needed coffee and I needed grease. But of course, I don't go to town anymore. I don't know the cafes anymore. So, I trudged, looking to find a suitable establishment. It took a while. And I was pissed and hungry.


Finally I found a place. Should I have been worried I was the only person there? hmm. Should I have been cross that they put me down the back? (It's a buggy segregation) Should I have been concerned that when other people did come into the place they were all slightly rough looking older women? Ah feck it, the coffee was delicious and the fried eggs were done just how I likes 'em.


So, I'm going back in on Friday.

Depending on what happens, you may want to skip this blog till Monday next.

Bad Trip

Grumpy day today.

I had to take a trip into town. Where once this was a treat - when I was a young slip of a thing - now I am old and curmudgeonly and it's just a pain.

I was picking up passports. Three out of the four monsters needed documentation. I am surprised klaxons didn't sound and red flashing lights didn't spring to life when I submitted their applications... should they be on some international watch list by now?



Thankfully I was able to go into town with only one of the mites in tow, all the rest in school - unlike when I brought the applications in. For reason, now flown from my brain due to post-traumatic stress disorder, I had to go in with Baby Oub (Ver 2.0) and T'Oub when doing the drop. Toddlers love big barren waiting rooms that have no entertainment and a lot of waiting. And babies like to cry for the entire duration of your stay. (As do mammys).

It was horrible. And when I got to the counter? Yes, you've guessed it - they weren't happy with the forms. Cause the eldest Oub child - aged 10 - hadn't signed his name on the form. You know, my signature at ten was most definitely my bond and certainly hasn't change a jot since then. But hey, if they wanted it we would have been more than happy to provide it. Only we were told a parents signature would suffice. Arse anyone? Elbow perhaps??? Gaaaahahahaha.

So, in I had trudged a second time, forms carefully signed by eldest Oub (for heaven's sake he printed his name he so didn't know what a signature is let alone actually have one!) and had to bring in the two youngest again. There was more tears this time - all mine - and more waiting. I was fooled into a false sense of security by the fact that there were only two ahead of me in the Q. Of course what I had failed to realise was that my queue was in fact inhabiting a rip in the space time continuum where time had no meaning and it moved as slowly as a Hollywood actor playing a presidential bodyguard throwing himself in front of an assassins bullet. (About as long as that sentence for example...)

But we got there eventually. They decided to issue me a reprieve and deigned to be happy with the forms I pathetically proffered to them, face damp, eyes blotchy and swollen, snot dripping.

I was to return on the 1st of March and collect them.

This morning.

They perhaps were thinking of the 1st of April. Cause like a bloody fool I expected them to be ready. I arrived, 10am, only one little baba this time, gravy! No one in the queue, extra gravy!! 'Hello mister passport guy!' I said - I even actually smiled at him. "Can I have my passports please?" I beamed.

"Er, they're on a truck right now. Can you come back at 3.30?" he said. Without even the decency to look ashamed. Bastard.

After the shuddering and twitching had stopped I stared at him. I considered yelling. I considered climbing up onto the counter and banging my bare fists against the perspex divide that was the only thing at that moment saving his life.

But in the end, I just said 'No. I cannot come back at 3.30."

They had won, they had finally defeated me.

So, what do you do in these circumstances?

Yes, go off and get yourself a dirty great big fry! I needed coffee and I needed grease. But of course, I don't go to town anymore. I don't know the cafes anymore. So, I trudged, looking to find a suitable establishment. It took a while. And I was pissed and hungry.


Finally I found a place. Should I have been worried I was the only person there? hmm. Should I have been cross that they put me down the back? (It's a buggy segregation) Should I have been concerned that when other people did come into the place they were all slightly rough looking older women? Ah feck it, the coffee was delicious and the fried eggs were done just how I likes 'em.


So, I'm going back in on Friday.

Depending on what happens, you may want to skip this blog till Monday next.