DA, THE MELODEON

Of quavers and keys

Da haven’t a notion

But still an’all

he plays the melodeon

He can white-pudding the moon

beamish the ocean

Fry seventeen eggs

and play the melodeon.

Ignoring gales and floods

and coastal erosion

He climbs up Saint Fin Barre’s

and blares the melodeon

He hammers the Trojans

and leathers the Spartans

As he snores on the sofa

and blows the melodeon.

One Christmas Eve well-on

he stripped down to his jocks

And he rodeoed a herd

of buffalo in the garden

The horns enlocked

the whirling snouts

The nipples of all

bellowed with emotion.

I loved all that

but was more thrilled

By his right left foot

that played the melodeon.

Of quavers and crotchets

Da haven’t a notion

Yet the muses adore him

when he plays the melodeon

Oh yeh the muses adore him

when he blows that melodeon!