Danny Farrell


I knew Danny Farrell when his football was a can
In his hand me down’s and wellies and sandwiches of bran
But now this pavement peasant is a full-grown bitter man
With all the trials and troubles of his travelling people’s clan

He’s a loser, a boozer, a me and you user
A rater, a traitor, and a police hater
So lonely and only, what you call a gurrier
Still now, Danny Farrell, he’s a man

I knew Danny Farrell when he joined the national school
He was lousy at the gaelic; called him amadán and fool
He was brilliant at the toss school or trading objects in the pawn
By the time he was an adult, all his charming ways were gone

I knew Dannd Farrell when he queued up for the dole
And he tried to hide his loss of pride that eats away the soul
Mending pots and kettles is a trade that’s lost in the past.
There’s no hand out’s here for tinkers was the answer when he asked.

I still know Danny Farrell, saw him just there yesterday,
Drinking methylated spirits with some winos on the quay
Now he’s forty going on eighty with his eyes of hope bereft
And he told me this for certain, there’s not many of us left


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Pete St John