Irish Coddle
It’s cold tonight, and wet,
and the boy’s gone to the pub.
They don’t have a fire there anymore,
but it’s air-conditioned so it’ll be warm.
They serve the damned beer unseasonably Aussie cold,
but he’ll drink whiskey with a single ice cube
that he’ll fish out and throw in the corner.
Ah, Jack, the Mrs is coddling me tonight
because I‘ve got a bloody cold.
She’s got me under a blanket here,
with whiskey for my innards,
and she’s making Irish Coddle.
I’m not coddin’ you, Jack, it’s a good life all the same.
This place smells of cats, but I don’t notice
that anymore, it’s damp and cold,
and my sinuses are blocked
so I don’t even really know it’s happening.
The tv says it’ll be cold and wet
for a week here, so I don’t expect to get out.
I snuck in the kitchen a bit ago
to see the gravy all gold
when I took the lid off, and the meat,
it was all red and black and chunky.
The sight of it coddled away the worst of the cold,
and that smell penetrated the concrete in my nose.
It’d be grand if you wanted to come around,
tonight, Jack, if you can afford to risk a cold.
We can have some whiskey and watch a movie,
maybe, or just talk and read some poetry.
Mrs’ll give you some coddle,
there’s enough for a bloody army.
Yeah, you should come around, boyo,
you don’t have to come near,
I’m sitting in the corner
so you can sit in the other one,
have your whiskey and coddle
and lure me out of the haze I’m in.
Ah, aye, that idiot Prime Minister is on the damned tv,
spouting the same old nonsense.
I think I’ll turn it off
and put on some Flogging Molly.
I know you like that band
and you’ll remember when
we used to sit in Molly’s Bar
when they used to be the house band
and they didn’t even have a name.
Jack, it’s cold and wet tonight,
come over for some distraction,
some whiskey, craic and coddle.
