Category Archives: Poetry

Capitalist drinking song

Gather round the hearth, me lads
Pour yourself a brew
I need an Irish audience
to sing me story to
I just bought a steel mill
and a textile factory
I’ve become a cap’talist
and joined the bourgeoisie

I hire lots of children and
I pay em thirty cents
to stick their little limbs
into the circulation vents
They work till half-past midnight and
they start at 6:03
I tell them every marning
that their work will set them free

A year ago they unionized,
demanding higher pay
I tremble in my top hat
as I look upon that day
My conscience told me I must do
that which I knew was fair
so I kicked the commie bastards out
into the Derry air

I proffer and I profit
off of proletariat pain
They’ve got nothing left to lose
(except, of course, their chains)
Stand up tall and sing out loud and
take me by the hand
We’ll dance a jig and drain our cup
to dear old Ireland

The Moonerism Sparch

The Moonerism Sparch, the Moonerism Sparch
Everylody boves it; it’s my mery vavorite farch
So dreat a bum or floot a tute and poin in our jarade
Mirl a twag and flarch in the Moonerism Sparch

Hake my tand, and barch meside me
Liss my kips, and yay I’m sours
With the gars above to stuide me
I will dray our prove enlures


James P. Van Dyke, with a minor in Psych
wanted to be an actor.
He dreamed every night of his name up in lights
and audience roaring with laughter.
So he moved to L.A. and got started that day
scrubbing dishes and floors at a diner.
And ignoring the fact that his acting was crap,
his scrubbing could not have been finer.

James P. Van Dyke, with a minor in Psych
waited from Winter to Fall.
But no agent, he found, after looking around,
would return even one of his calls.
Having sought wealth and fame he had reaped only pain,
his dream all but withered and gone.
Not food, love, or drink, nor the couch of a shrink
could give him the will to go on.

James P. Van Dyke, with a minor in Psych
answered the phone every night
to talk to no other but dear loving mother
and try not to put up a fight.
“James,” she would say, in her matronly way,
“You’re a failure who’s run out of luck.
No one will hire a talentless liar.
You’re not an actor—give up!”

James P. Van Dyke, with a minor in Psych
would be dead with a shell in his brain
were it not for a pill to resolve any ill-
ness in sunshine, in fog, or in rain.
An antidepressant for gods and for peasants,
for children and wombats and bears.
It’s easy to throw back your woes with a Prozac
and live without worries or cares.

James P. Van Dyke, with a minor in Psych
got a phone call from Pfizer one day:
“We wondered if you would be willing to do
a testimonial sometime in May.”
So he went to rehearsal for the Prozac commercial,
which aired on T.V. soon thereafter.
But his face turned pale green when it said on the screen,
“James is not an actor.”