Behan, and the culchie poet Kavanagh,
was making their way home to Drumcondra,
after sinking a parade of pints in Keogh’s pub
. . . . . earlier.
They was coming up Russell Street,
by the canal, when who should they spy,
but young Roddy Doyle, and he sittin’
in the gutter, feasting from a snot.
He was writing on the footpath
a stub o’ chalk,
robbed from the school
in his hand, and Behan says
tottering over him,
Fighting Words? What’s that?
Cause that’s what was written
you understand . . . ‘nanyway,
|A man out-standing in his own field.|
didn’t the little imp, turnip head
shout up at him, as bold as brass.
It’ll be your epitaph mister Behan,
if you don’t get the fuck home
to the Missus rite away . . .
Says Behan with a smirk
I tink he’ll be a righter!
©Copyright Niall OConnor
Images borrowed from the web.