A friend of a friend of a friend, of course:
Sheena was going to give it a miss,
but she’s here after all and so am I:
her on the Smithwick’s; me on Bacardi.
It took us half an hour to find it:
from the dunes you can’t see the sudden dip
(unless you’re one of them mingers beating
the bishop at the sight of bikinis),
but then you see smoke and hear the guitar.
I’m gonna sit nearer to the fire.
Out by the Skerries, a tanker’s anchored.
By now its crew’ll be getting wankered
in the Harbour Bar. I hate sing-alongs.
Yer man Karaoke Boy always sings:
no, I don’t write the feckin’ book of love.
And no, I don’t have faith in God above.
What about ye, Big Man? Sit beside me.
D’ye fancy a slurp of my Bacardi?