Note: The lads might want to skip down to the best bit

From her, to him

For things I might have said to you
In anger or frustration,
For times when words of mine have been
A source of provocation,
…I’m sorry.

For unkind actions, thoughtless deeds
Or inconsideration,
For jumping to conclusions,
For rejecting moderation,
…I’m sorry.

For timely things I haven’t done,
Forgetting or omitting,
For knowing sometimes I was wrong
Without, in fact, admitting,
…I’m sorry.

For conversations we have had
When temper stole affection,
For looking in a negative,
Not positive, direction,
…I’m sorry.

For being too insensitive
And just a bit unwise,
For failing to perceive the need
For loving compromise,
…I’m sorry.

From him, to her

For screaming when the sun did burn
The seat upon my moped blue
For throwing up upon the rug
When you were puking too
…I’m sorry

For cellotaping four grain forks
To the bumper of your sister’s car
For belching loudly in my pint
As you sat silent at the bar
…I’m sorry

For nights spent plucking fluff
From deep dark downy navels
For days spent greasing grotty gutters
While you recited 9 times tables
…I’m sorry

For sand and silt upon the quilt
The one your granny made us
For grabbing big chunks of your arse
While you cried “stop be jayzez”
… I’m sorry

For all the things I love to do
Like humping you and farting too
Kicking cats and shit like that
And grunting groaning on the loo
…I’m sorry

I am led to believe, and believe me, I am not easily led, that a small number of international readers (one - Sam) will be visiting Ireland for the first time to attend the blog awards. A greater number (one + ) will be returning to Ireland, the land of their forefathers, or four great-grandfathers, around then too. So being all efficient and stuff, I’ve decided to combine Poetry Middle #1.01 with a brief introduction to Hiberno-English for Sam - it may also serve as a refresher course for returnees.

I will take questions after class. Family and friends only. No flowers. Donations, if desired, to the Brewer’s Droop Research Fund.

Hey diddle diddle,

The cat’s on the fiddle,

The cow hopped over the moon

The little dog laughed, to see such craic

And the dish did a runner with the spoon.

Polly, stick on that kettle there

Polly! Would ya stick the kettle on

Polly! For jayzez’ sake, Stick - The - Fekin - Kettle - On

‘Til we all have tae.

Ah fuckit whip it off again

Well fuckit whip it off again

Y’might as well whip it t’fuk off again

They’ve all shagged off.

Jack Sprat could eat no fat

His wife … she was a Murphy

One of Guard Murphy’s young wans

The sisters are all in the guards as well

Barring Rose now. She’s in the hairdressing she is

Works in that place beside the Chinese chippers

Cuts hair for wans off the telly an’all so she does

Now what was I saying about yer man Sprat again?