Saturday, October 15, 2011

Behan, Kavanagh, and Roddy Doyle.

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.


  1. Oh, wonderful! True story? Apocryphal anecdote? Your own inspired piece of fiction? (PS Brendan rules!) . . . Rosemary Nissen-Wade

  2. Alcohol inspired poxy anecdote. Brendan

  3. Love that you placed Kavanagh there.
    Deborah SG

  4. I don't know any of these people but you know how I feel about your stuff, even the schnockered you.;)


Comments are welcome . . .