'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
In a small country village some young lads are drinking,
they take the roads and drive fast without thinking;
then all of a sudden they crash and they die,
'Hurrah' say the papers as they wail, gnash and cry;
We need someone now to make our roads safer,
not Gaybo, the cunt, who's as weak as wafer;
bring in Stallone or someone that's stronger,
we simply won't suffer this carnage no longer;
But the newspaper men are liars and cheats,
they build up the hype to sell tabs and broadsheets;
the people will always die on the roads,
it's natural selection you despicable toads;
Far away on the coast some folk are protesting,
they don't want the gas and the times they are testing;
as they sit and drink Barry's tea from their mugs,
they lose lots of face as they battle like thugs;
All alone in his house a miser sits drinking,
counting money and chequebooks and solemnly thinking;
'De people still love me, I'm sure about dat',
but he's wrong the misguided, deluded old twat.
In Dublin's fair city where the girls are so fair,
the Orangemen came to march without care;
'Welcome to Dublin', the young locals said,
then the beer and joints went straight to their heads;
The city officials were wise, that is right,
to let the prods march on a fresh building site;
the Dubs had iron bars and weapons galore,
they never ran out, there were always some more;
Then they started the looting like a Los Angeles echo,
lots of new pairs of Nikes for Fitzer and Deco;
the place was a mess, like a giant knacker's turd,
but all was not lost, they beat up Charlie Bird.
Elsewhere we were faced with the true queen of panto,
with a mouth like a fishwife and an arse quite giganto;
a mobile phone message meant things were quite sticky,
till she scared you away trying to zip up your mickey.
The football team won only one match or two,
the manager, players and squad are all poo;
in tv land Dunphy he just loved to talk,
'bout that useless and ginger twat down from Dundalk.
It should have been easy to go win in Cyprus,
but we let in five and then there was crisis;
we all wanted change but the masterplan,
from the FAI was to stick with shit Stan.
The Eurovision song contest came round again,
Kennedy was hoping for a twelve or a ten;
but sadly for him it wasn't his night,
no big surprise coz his song was pure shite.
The Irish blog scene it grew and got famous
now there's a blog by every Tom, Dick, or Seamus;
but the ladies had best beware the grim reaper,
some mysterious man, that nasty gatekeeper.
And this is the last great verse of my rhyme,
in a year when we all dreamt of better time;
a time of cheap pints, cheap fags and old punts,
now fuck off you horrible, miserable cunts.
It's a tradition, I told you before
