forsooth tis a cracker

Evening at the Chateau.
Greeny Budgie has just deposited a pooh on my shoulder and flown from impending retribution to the comparative safety of the curtain rail.
I muse aloud thus tragicly:
"Let me have budgies about me who are fat.
Such budgies as sleep a nights.
Yon Greeny hath a lean and hungry look.
She tweets too much." 
The ghost of William Shakespeare materialises in the rocking chair.
"Good one Heelers," quoth he. "Worth waiting for."
"That one was for you Shakey," I reply.
"Put on South Park," murmurs the Bard eying the television.
Greeny returns to my shoulder and, after reconnoitring briefly, seizes my ear lobe for some exploratory surgery.
"Greeny you evil swine," I cry flailing at her.
She flies back to the curtain rail.
The Swan of Avon hasn't noticed any of this as he is now watching South Park.
The good episode.
Where the kids are junior detectives.
I nurse my ear tenderly.
"That ephin budgie," quoth me.
The ghost of Little Donnie Osmond appears.
He sings:
"And they called it budgie love,
And guess they'll never know,
How a bitten ear really feels,
Someone help me, help me please."
When he stops singing me and Shakey applaud.
"Switch on Friends," says Little Donnie Osmond eying the television.
It's been that sort of evening.

treesomes

Jim Hawkins approached in mellow mood
With cries of "Hey" and "Whassup Dude?"

He bid me sit and listen hence
To his latest gems of intelligence.

Full of grins and giggles odd
He haply proclaimed: "There is no God."

"It's all a myth and so we're free
To indulge in ceaseless pagan orgies."

My gentle admonitions drew
A stern rebuke: "Oh come on, you knew."

"We're genes and chemistry, that is all.
Richard Dawkins is on the ball."

"He's spotted the con job, he's called God's bluff.
We're not spirits. We are stuff."

He rambled on in manner crude
Before bidding me a merry: "See ya Dude."

And I was left to contemplate
The wilful hopelessness of the atheistic state.

Our minds enslaved, our spirits pseudo free.
Oh orgies are made by fools like me

And I'd have added if he'd waited to the bold Jim Hawkins
Only God can make a Richard Dawkins.

a percy in the proboscis is worth a monument in the bush

The thought rises almost unbidden that perhaps it's time to commission lefty Argentine artist Marianna Gabor to create a permanent monument to me.
She might do it.
We have a vague acquaintance from somewhere.
And in an age of abortionist Nazis, the genuinely great man must make his own monuments.
If I were to let my greatness attend upon the dilatory dilletante atheists of Irish conformist pseudo radicalism, why then, future generations would simply pass into their graves without knowing aught of my legend.
Or indeed of what they'd missed.
Egotistical, moi?
Mariana Gabor's best known work is an eye catching and heart stopping bronze sculpture dedicated to theatre people kidnapped and killed by the military during the Argentine civil war.
I suppose they were mostly communists.
Presumably they would not have had muct truck with my gentle Christian pretentions.
She gave them an amazing monument anyway, whoever or whatever they were.
It's in downtown Buenos Aires and features a line of bronze figures taking a bow before an imaginary audience.
It's called El Aplauso, The Applause.
Question: Should my monument include the bulbous pustule currently protruding from the interior of my left nostril?

valhalla

a feasting hall of the dead
the place is thronged
with anonymous provincial poets
the walls ring with their songs
and far down sit the few
who won great fame whilest yet alive

and in this place
where triumph and pretention are ripped bare
and fame and fancy torn to dust
yeats and shakespeare
dog the heels of one such
ciaran smith
pleading for his attention
vying for his favour
he in turn
is kind to them

watching the defectives

The Daily Mail's Irish edition has declared profits of around a million dollars for the year.
The Daily Mail's Irish edition made these profits on the back of 65 million dollars in borrowings from idiot banks.
Sure we could all do that.
We could all flute around promoting abortion culture using borrowed cash, pretend we're running a business, and at the end of the year declare we'd made a million bucks in profits while still owing idiot banks 65 mill which the general public are then required to stump up to stop those same idiot banks going out of business.
The wheel is rigged.
And it's the only game in town.

***
Copies to Ireland's other festering bankrupt anti Catholic pro abortion media groups. To wit: Independent Newspapers (net indebtedness upwards of two billion dollars), The Irish Times (annual losses of a hundred million dollars) and RTE (no viewers, financed by compulsory mugging of the citizenry via a licence fee to the tune of a couple of hundred million dollars a year).