The back door was open
it was one of the first days of Summer,
despite being one of the last,
so there was no way I was going to close it.
I didn’t lose the head,
I was reasonable,
I gave them fair warning.
They could come in,
that was entirely up to them,
but if they did come in -
I would have to kill them.
And in they came, one after the other,
brazen striped flying banditos.
Dopey, drunken, dangerous,
dressed up like Kilkenny cats
into this Tipperary hearted house.
And I battered them with oven glove,
stunned them and finished them,
all eight of them, spindly feet up
while the toast grew cold and hard.
My tired lungs grew sore, I admitted defeat
and closed the door.