The office of the Taoiseach
It is really mystifyin’
That the populace all think
That our charismatic Brian
Was the worse the wear for drink.
The interview on radio that caused this pint-sized stir
Was given in his traditional, laconic culchie burr.
To say he ran his words together – that is just a slur,
A slander on the office of the Taoiseach.
An eight hour drinking session
Wouldn’t leave him worse for wear.
What gives you that impression?
It’s really so unfair!
It’s a new low for the state, he says, confronted on all flanks
And on mature reflection, yes, we all agree it ranks
Much lower than child sex scandals and the business with the banks,
This attack upon the office of the Taoiseach.
The Taoiseach’s hale and hearty,
He doesn’t mind a sup,
(Say supporters of the party
As they try to keep him up)
No fear of any Garda who might ask him to exhale.
Of course he’s stone cold sober after all those pints of ale,
It’s all a fiendish plot that has been hatched by Fine Gael,
A scourge upon the office of the Taoiseach.
He is cultured and well-tutored
And his diction is controlled.
Sure, of course he wasn’t fluthered,
It was only a bad cold.
The aspirins he guzzled down were merely antidotal,
Rumours of binge-drinking, I am told, are anecdotal,
In fact, if truth be told, the man is practically tee-total,
Befitting the grand office of the Taoiseach.
And if he lets his hair down
And starts lurrying the gargle,
Should moral pressure bear down?
To deny him Waxie’s Dargle?
Why should his drink consumption matter to the queuing classes?
Carlsberg is the drink to lead the country out of chassis,
Didn’t Churchill see the war out through a pair of brandy glasses?
Raise your pints now to the office of the Taoiseach.
Sorry, couldn't resist it...