Subterranean homesick Budget-time Blues
Ouch! It hurt. From your head to your toes,
It's a slasher movie dressed up in budgetary clothes.
It's Psycho for slow-learners, we were feelin' uncertain
As Norman Bates came peepin' round the bathroom curtain
Dressed up as the minister, the knife our fate!
Kildare-Street-Chainsaw-Massacre, two thousand and eight.
Shares gettin' lower, stocks gettin' slower,
Ain't got no dough or we'd be gettin' on the blower
To a woman sellin' tickets to the hot Caribbean
Where Ireland's tax exiles, you'd be likely to see 'em.
It's gettin' so I'm scared to turn on the news.
Got the subterranean homesick bank bailout Budget blues.
Yes, back in the Sixties when the world was young.
And when life got heavy -- the young folks sung!
Top billin' was Bob Dylan and his raspy gravel voice;
John Lennon spat venom if you fancied a choice.
But now, these days, when times get hard
Where's the national protest-singin' bard?
Johnny's in the basement, thinking it's outrageous
They're askin' Gerry Ryan to take a cut in his wages!
The Budget came early, freaked out the whole nation,
It was bad, bad vibes, and a hard auld station.
Country feckinwell wrecked -- when we used to be loaded
But the boom went bang and the bubble imploded.
Hard times for the bankers, hard for their friends,
It's been hard for the builders, no money to lend
So the budgetary cudgels are picked up to bludgeon
The nation existin' in shock and high dudgeon
And the bread's all burnt, the economy's toast.
An' where's Bobby Dylan when you need him the most?
Mr Cowen's lookin' down at the ashes an' the embers,
Mr Gormley's lookin' warmly at the Labour Party members,
Miss Joan Burton's hurtin', the economy's a-slumber,
Richard Bruton's nearly shootin' at his opposite number;
Only Jackie Healy-Rae is safe from harm --
He's goin' back to workin' on Maggie's Farm.
Yes, where can they be, all the protest-singin' bards
And they standin' in an alley with the words wrote on cards.
It's been blowin' in the wind, it's been blowin' through the Dail
That a hard, hard rain is -- gonna fall;
And we're all sayin' prayers to the Holy Ghost,
Where's You-Know-Who when you need him the most?
There's a house in New Orleans called the Risin' Sun
And there's Leinster House in Dublin where the country's mis-run
There's debates on the State and the fate of the nation's
Finances and chances of beating inflation's
Bad grip on the country; we've been hittin' the brakes!
Woke up on Budget-morning with a case of the shakes
Cos they're taxin' your income, taxin' the booze,
Taxin' Woody Guthrie singin' Tombstone Blues,
Taxin' your flight and taxin' your motor,
It's five grand extra from every last voter!
Taxin' your breakfast, taxin' your bed,
Taxin' the thoughts goin' on in your head.
And the bones for your dog and the milk for your cat,
And they're taxin' your leopard-skin pillbox hat,
And they're taxin' the facts and they're taxin' the fictions
'Stead of axin' the fellers who caused these afflictions.
Oh, thanks to the banks; fine executives youse!
We've a case of the two Brians' Budget-time blues.
Oh Halloween's comin', you can nearly hear the screamin'.
George Lee's dressed as Dracula, Dave McWilliams as a demon,
It's the knife of Brian. We'll be bawlin' with fear,
There's a whole lotta shakin' goin' on around here.
Yes it's one of the Government's budgetary feats,
It's a big bag of tricks -- and not so many treats.
If this was a ballad it'd have quite a chorus.
Mr Cowen wants your vote an' Mr Bertie wants the Aras,
Mr Kenny hasn't very many new things to say,
Mr Gilmore's looking ill-more with every passin' day
Mr Caoimhghin O Caolain is speakin' all day long
And out here the rest of us are all gonna pay.
Banner headlines howlin', we're all feelin' miffed,
When you're biffed by a Biffo, you stay bloodywell biffed.
Man in a suit lookin' only half-alive,
Wants forty billion euro bills, you only got five.
No jobs; Eddie Hobbs from dusk till dawn
Every time you switch the bloody radio on!
Oh lay lady lay, on me big brass bed;
It's a shame I had to pawn it for a breakfast-roll instead
Cos I'm drivin' up from Carlow from a flat I can't pay for
To a job that's gettin' shifted out to outer Bombay for
Globalisation has caused a bonanza.
Where's Bobby Dylan when you're needin' a stanza?
Celtic Tiger skipped town, he's deserted the lot of us.
Now the national emblem is called the Biffopotamus,
The belts bein' tightened, we're all bein' frightened
And the tension I mention seems soon to be heightened
Cos the Budget didn't fudge it when it came to the cuts.
Where's Bobby Dylan? Not here -- unless he's nuts.
Yeah the Budget came early, Christmas lookin' quiet.
The whole bleedin' country on an unexpected diet
And who's gonna pay, well you're damn sure to know
That it won't be the people who made all the dough.
We're slim, we're thin, it's scary and strange an'
Where's Bobby Dylan ... when the times they are a changin'?
So put on your old albums, keep safe, keep warm,
An' batten down the hatches an' we'll shelter from the storm
An' remember the Eighties, that time of fiscal pain,
Hope it won't last forever, we'll come through the hurricane,
And robbin' a bank is a crime too far,
But when the bank robbed us -- we bought the getaway car.
This poem was first broadcast on Radio 1's Drivetime last Wednesday
- Joseph O'Connor
