animal farm

The Irish farm animals crowded up to the windows of the Irish White House.
They peeped in.
A few years before they would have seen Mary McAleese and her coterie of corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Fail pigs snarfing from the trough.
Now the table was packed with oleaginous Labour Party socialist apparatchiks lionising their new President, a certain wreck of the hesperas styling himself Michael D Higgins.
The Irish farm animals blinked and stared.
For a moment beneath the glittering chandeliers, the Labour Party socialists looked just like Fianna Fail kleptocrats of recent memory.
The Irish farm animals squinted from the darkness pressing against the window panes as the rain waters and storm force winds of a collapsing economy bored through them.
They looked from poverty and penury into the horn of plenty.
And still they could see no difference.
No difference between the Previous President and the Present President.
No difference between the showboating anti Catholic entourages of both Presidents.
No difference between the corrupt kleptocratic Fianna Failers  so well remembered and the oleaginous atheistic Labour Party socialists here before our eyes.
No difference at all.
Still the chandeliers glittered.
And still the pigs toasted each other.
And now the Fianna Failers had reappeared, entered the room like old confreres, and were sitting down beside the Labour Party apparatchiks from whom they were indistinguishable.
And they toasted each other with strange high revelry.
And caressed each other.
And gave each other business loans.
And gave the new President Michael D Higgins four, or is it five, pensions.
And bailed out each other's banks.
In the darkness outside with the other Irish farm animals Old Heelers shook his noble head sadly.
"What a shower of c--ts," he murmured.