An Cailín Bocht Marbh

Áileann a bhí a h-aghaidh,
Agus dathúil soiléir a bhí a tón,
Bhí airgead go leor ina póca,
Agus cóicéain suas a srón.
D’fhéach daoine uirthi,
Cailín óg d’fhiche bliain d’aois,
Bhí a pictiúr sna nuachtáin,
Agus ar an teilifís
Bhí soal breá ós a cóir,
Bhí gach rud ceart go leor,
Agus nuair a fuair sí bás,
Bhí an caoineadh di, mór.

Cúpla lá roimhe, I bPort Láirge,
Bhí cúpla fir óga,
Ag cóisir le cairde,
Ag damhsa le ceol chun na cailíní a phógadh,
Thógadar cóicéain an oíche sin,
Agus d’fhéach an domhan síos orthu,
Toisc gur tháinig na buachaillí as áiteanna bochta,
Dúirt daoine fuatha, “ochón, ochón.”

B’fhéidir ar maidin a breithlá,
Nuair a chonaic sí na buachaillí marbha,
Anois iad fíorbhocht,
Dúirt sí léi féin ansin,
“Ní thógfaidh mé cóicéan anocht”
Agus nuair a thit sí an urláir,
Agus tinneas mór inti,
An ndúirt sí lena cairde,
“Ná tóg drugaí?”
Agus nuair a fhéachann sí síos inniú,
Ar na daoine ag breathnú uirthi ar an teilifís,
B’fhéidir ní thógadh sí drugaí,
Dá mbeadh an seans aici arís.

The Kathy French Story

Kathy French was an Irish model and local celebrety and died of a cocaine overdose in December last year, to a Dianaesque outporing of grief in the media.

It was a mere two or three weeks after two young men from a working class estate in Waterford died of the same causes, to no great hoo-haw from the media, showing the hypocracy of the reporting TV and newspapers.

While I myself had no great sympathy for the young men, though I of course do for their families - I feel the same about Kathy French - she brought it on herself, and did not warrant the hysterical reaction in the press.

-- o O O --

The Poor Dead Girl

Beautiful was her face
And beautiful indeed her ass
Lots of money in her pocket
And cocaine up her nose
The people looked at her
Young girl of twenty years
The pictures in the paper
And on the television
She was the girl who had it made
She was all right
And when she died
The crying for her was great.

A couple of days before
In Waterford, a couple of young men
At a house party with friends
Dancing to music, kissing girls
They ate cocaine that night
And the world looked down its nose at them
For they were working class, those boys
And poor, so few said of them alas alas.

Maybe, on the morning of her birthday
When she saw the poor dead boys
She said to herself alone
“I wont do cocaine tonight”
And when she hit the floor
When great was her illness
Did she say to her friends
“Don’t do drugs!”?
And when she looks down now
At the people looking at her picture on the television
Maybe shed not do the drugs
If the had the chance in her hand again?