No funnel-web spiders, no poisonous snakes,
No man-munching crocodiles roaming our lakes,
No seismic event to rattle your window,
Nor reports of typhoons in Herald or Indo,
No locusts infesting our crop-bearing fields,
In a manner reducing our average yields,
Just sparkling streams of salmon and trout,
Bagun, cabaiste and ebony stout,
But God looking down thought it too much like Heaven,
And so as he rested on day number seven,
Came up with a plan to balance it all . . .
Labour, Fine Gael and Fianna Fail.