The Rickety Wheel
by John McMenamin
At Radio Foyle, there are two men
Who come on and fight, at half past ten
There names are Anderson and Coyle
And they bicker, squabble, huff and scowl.
Of Gerry now, what can one say?
A showband star, of a bye gone day
He played guitar and could also sing
But just memories now, of the old G string.
And Mr Coyle, or should I say Sean?
Who dreams each night of a hole in wan
On a chair hangs his golfing gear
Tartan and stripes?-how very queer.
Yes, all lifes there, in it’s many hues
I blame community care-and of course, the booze
People talk of songs and books and poems
And most of them should be in homes.
The digger man, the yodeler too
The man who turned the air-waves blue
The woman looking for a bed
The taxi man, with the baldy head.
James Morton now he takes no lip
And comes out shooting from the hip
“ Gerry, let Bobby Darin sing
Ah, you never give me—anything”.
And Jordie, the oracle of the soil
He cures cats and dogs-and even fowl
And Michael?—well what can I say?
I’d better not go down—that way.
But the Programmes good, it’s full of treats
And it keeps the loonies of the streets
And it never has done me no harm
To be part of “Gerrys Funny Farm”.
And every time, about this year
Gerry and Sean bring Christmas cheer
Big Gerry Kelly saunters in
And the rickety, makes quite a din.
And the rickety wheel, goes round and round
A cats been lost and a dogs been found
A parrots sitting up a tree
Time for a fag and a cup of tea.
Play this, play that, play anything
A man comes on and tries to sing
A cure for warts, a cure for pains
A woman phones—I can hear her wains
Mr Coyle, has lost his rag
Gerrys dying for a fag
Geraldine’s sitting by the phone
Wishing that she was at home.
She got up at the crack of dawn
Has the little sailor—really gone?
The rickety wheel, goes clickety clack
That was the news-and now we’re back.
Gerry, I’ve a wild pain in my legs
Gerry, will you play Dan Eggs?
A woman swears-now that is rude
Old Jordie says, “Try jeyes Fluid”.
And rickety wheel, goes round and round
A dogs been lost and a cats been found
Mrs Mills-Johnny Cash
Time for the loo, if I make a dash.
A puke calls in to vent his spleen
A canary escapes- it’s blue and green
Gerry, gives a little sigh
Michael comes on and starts with-HI.
Old Jordie,--he’s been at the stout
And his bed needs a damn good dunging out
Michael, he goes into fits
The upper torso guy, leers at—chests.
Gerrys running out of puff
The “Wee Boy” he has had enough
So of they go to have their tea
Time for the crazies—with bid D.
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