Holy smoke! We’ve a Pope! Triple Limerick.

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Well, knock me down with a feather!

There’s been a grand change in the weather,

Maga snowflakes are wilting,

God’s light’s unrelenting,

Now the Orange one’s all in a lather.

There’s a saying, cold hands and warm hearts,

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Congrat’s due to you, Sir Sadiq,

The fascists’ New Year’s looking bleak,

A brown man’s been honoured,

He’s top of his manor.

Who's having a right fit of pique?

Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh 5th January 2025

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Many a pint,

many a laugh,

many a smile,

and many the tears

over the months

and over the years.

Where now, though’s, love,

amongst these not-so-young lads,

and not-so-young girls?

Distant now,

perhaps a year ago?

the memory persists,

it’s vivid still,

the time yon mon,

distraught and close to tears,

burst through those welcoming

double doors,

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…and did those boots in World War time,

Stamp around England’s pleasant land:

And were those Blackshirt fascist sods,

From Cable Street off-seen!

Never did we countenance a time,

When journalists would see th’ Old Bill!

At dawn, a-knocking on their doors,

For telling truth, with fear instilled!

We must not cease Evil to Fight,,

Nor must my pen sleep in my hand...

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