The Session

Oh, they say that a song is considered to long

If it goes over 25 verses

In the midst of a session its listeners will lessen

Repeating the chorus to often will bore us

And drive us to states of distraction

It’s best that the lark keeps its air short and sharp

Or it’s liable to end up in traction

Chorus

The width and the breath and the depth of a session

The skill and the spill and the thrill of it all

The string and the red and the skin in contenting

A session, no messin, I’m still in its thrall

Oh, a fiddle or four when you walk in the door

Is a sight that can cause apprehension

‘cos fiddles you see are like rabbits they breed

The details I care not to mention

Five, six and now seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven

A feline cacophony wails

No ifs and no buts but this torture of guts

Should end up with a stretch in the jail

Chorus

Be it bodhrán or bones will the sticks and the stones

They are thrown from within and without sir

Don’t mention the spoons ‘cos they mangle the tunes

Oh, I’d toss that their loss is our win sir

Well you’ve got cause to gripe if a box or a pipe

They collide in a slide or a reel

With a banjo thrown in, there’s an unholy din

To the law well we surely should squeal

Mick Lynch ‘08

The Working Man’s Pint

The Working Man’s Pint was inspired by re-reading of A pint of plain by Flann O’Brien. The chorus was composed as I hungrily endured the wait for my pint to settle after a hot and dusty day’s work.
Mick Lynch 2009

Lyrics:

The Working Man’s Pint

Chorus

The working man’s pint, oh the working man’s pint

No halves or no shorts or cocktails will suffice

I know cos I’ve tried them in error before

Oh the pint’s what the artisan truly adores.

In the days of the pyramids history does tell

The bosses were cruel. Conditions were hell

But the pharaoh was crafty and at fall of night

The slaves they queued up for their couple of pints

But then came the locust and ate all the grain

It was pints and not Moses that made up their minds

So they upped and left Egypt in search of a pint

Chorus

In his Grecian Jacuzzi sat wise Archimedes

Encumbered with numbers and lumbered with theories

The problem in question was fluid displacement

The more they poured in it poured out on the pavement

He thought of the points and the quarts he’d imbibed

Reminisced on the pisses he’d had on the sly

He jumped up in the tub and jumped over the side

Said the streaker, Eureka, it’s down to the pints

Chorus

Leonardo Da Vinci was faced with a teaser

He’d got a commission to paint Mona Lisa

Just to make her look nice the advice from her geezer

But try as he might Leo just couldn’t please her

He laughed and he danced and he sang, he beguiled

But he just couldn’t get the old bugger to smile

So he plied her with cider, it took him a while

T’was the quarts that distorted her face in that style.

Chorus

On the bridge of the Enterprise Captain Kirk sighed

The Diluthium Crystal had finally died

The Klingons were closing, the future looked bleak

They had power for an hour never mind for a week

‘till a voice on the intercom said with some pride

This is Scotty, I’ve found some I’d put to one side

So go up to warp 9, leave the Klingons behind

Celebrate because later you’re buying the pints

Chorus

When you reach your life’s end and you go see your maker

Be you Buddhist or Baptist or Papist or Quaker

Unless you’re a sadist, a rapist or faker

A doer of harm or a total piss taker

St Peter will greet you with arms open wide

He’ll unlatch the catch and he’ll haul you inside

With his arm round your shoulder with joy he’ll confide

That the stout’s on the house ‘till the end of all time.

Chorus

They don’t come from Cork

This song came about as I observed the behavior of Non-Corkonians and how they reacted to the nuances of Cork City live. Jay walking for examples, is the sacred right (if not a duty) for every Corkman and Woman. The chorus expresses our notorious self importance but also, I hope, our self deprivation and love of “the slag”.

Wassies: Wasps

Norries: Those from the Northside.

Sorries: those from the Southside.

Marshian: those from central island. The Marsh as it is known.

Drisheen: A Blood Sausage.

Tripe: The lining of a Cow’s stomach.

Crubeens: Pig Trotters.

Skirts: A cheap Pork Cut.

Corned Beef: Beef pickled in Brine.
Mick Lynch 2009

Lyrics:

They don’t come from Cork

 They don’t come from Cork

‘cos they can’t cross the road

They wait at the lights

And they do what they’re told

In the middle of the night

With no cars to be seen

They wait for the red man

To change to the green

On Fridays at tea-time

As gridlock locks in

They hover on corners

Like wassies round bins

They don’t understand

That with poise and with grace

A Corkman can cross

Any time any place

We’re Norries, We’re Sorries, We’re Marshians

We hail from the banks of the Lee

We’re fond of revolt and rebellion

And we’ll fight for our right to be free

We’re know for our wit and our wisdom

And our skill with a hurl and a ball

No inferiority complex

When you come from the real capital

The don’t come from Cork

‘cos they queue for the bus

They wait in a line

And they don’t make a fuss

When the buggers form Christians and Pres form a ruck

And push up to the front

‘cos they don’t give a f***

They give up their seats

To the crippled and old

And move to the back

Without even being told

But manners don’t matter

At the end of the day

If you’re left in the lurch

As the bus pulls away.

We’re Norries, We’re Sorries, We’re Marshians

We hail from the banks of the Lee

We’re fond of revolt and rebellion

And we’ll fight for our right to be free

We’re know for our wit and our wisdom

And our skill with a hurl and a ball

No in feer e ality complex

When you come from the real capital

They don’t come from Cork

‘cost they don’t like Drisheen

They gripe at our Tripe

Think Pig’s Head is Obscene

When offal is offered

Their faces turn green

And they run half a mile

When you mention crubeens

Our tongue they won’t take to

Our skirts they won’t wear

And they look for the corn

In the corned beef I swear

But they’re fond of our sausage

They think it’s the best

So we’ll stuff them with bangers

And keep all the rest.

You Tube - Don for Chickens - They don't come from Cork

You Tube - Don for Chickens - They don't come from Cork, Balcony TV

Mick Lynch about himself in 2009.

I was born in the late 1950s into a family of singers. My father and older brother were fond of ballads while my mother and sister leaned more to the pop side of things. My abiding memories of family get-togethers, holidays and long car journeys are of sing-songs, pub singing, competitions and the dreaded ‘Noble Call’¹. As a boy, I had a find boy contralto voice until an unfortunate kick in the throat left me a tenor bass. In the late 1970s, however, a different music called and in 1978 I joined my first punk band. Moving to London in 1984 I joined a band called “Stump” and achieved extraordinary success leading to national and international tours, television appearances, a major recording contract and an inevitable fall from favour. As lyricist for “Stump” I recorded 2 ½ albums, 5 E.Ps and numerous demos.

Returning to Cork in 19995, I rekindled my interest in traditional music and began to write my own material.

Since 1998, I have been performing as ‘Don for Chickens’² in the pubs and clubs of Cork and beyond, playing a mix of traditional, country and punk in a “stand up comedy” framework. Support slots include The Fall and Alabama 3. As a writer for Dowtcha Puppets!³ I also compose comic songs and songs for children’s theatre.

¹Nobel Call: A point of etiquette in a singing session where the last singer has the power to ‘call’ on another singer for a song.

²Don for Chickens: ‘Don’ is a card game, popular in working class areas and now restriced to parts of Dublin, Cork and Belfast. Similar to ‘Bridge’ it is a game of two teams and all cards are used. The chickens involved are the prizes for the winners for a knock-our tournament. Thus, Don for Chickens becomes Don for Turkeys at Christmas, Don for Lamb at Easter etc.

³Dowtcha Puppets: Website http://www.dowtcha.com

Mattie Kiely

Mattie Kiely occupies a unique place in the history of Cork city life. The proprietor of a small chip shop, tucked away in an unassuming side street, Mattie served a congregation of disparate, and desperate souls. Builders, Bankers, Schoolboys, Dockers, O.A.Ps, Winos, the Rich, the Poor, the Sober and the Drunk, he served them all. Mattie’s menu was short and to the point. Burgers, Sausages, or fish (No Chicken). Plain, with Chips or in a Supper. Portions were small but the prices were too and this made it a favourite for those on a limited budget or appetite. Stories abound about the shop and the man, and his retirement was a terrible shock to his customers and friends.

Mick Lynch 2009

Lyrics:

Mattie Kiely

On a cold December evening

It’s Cork it’s mid December

I was waiting for the girlfriend

And I hoped that she’d remember

Conversations from the night before

The both of us were pissed

We said we’d meet at 5 O’clock

Or was that 5, a 6?

I though I’d got a fifty

When the clock read half past five

When my mobile rung

It was your one

She was rough but still alive

I’ve only just got up she said

My eyebrows must get lined

I’ll meet you there at half past 8

No, make that 8 a 9

As I stood there in the shelter

At the front of Roches Stores

Perused the permutations

And beneath my breath I swore

I hadn’t had by breakfast

I hadn’t had my tea

I was feeling numb, I was feeling glum

When a thought occurred to me.

Chorus

Just go around the corner

To a place where you’ll get fed

Lay out some dosh

For some handsome nosh

By my stomach I got led

He’s may not as tall as….

Be he look a lot like Mylie

Ooooh, Mattie Kiely

I reached my destination

Took my hat off, stepped inside

The temperature was toasted

The aroma deeply fried

The atmosphere had a hint of beer

The light a battered hue

I took my place

In the space prescribed

And turned to see the view

A section of humanity

Predominantly older

In a line at ease with their mushy peas

Their chips, their Coca Colas

For those who chose the cutlery

A plastic fork at most

Their tablecloth a single page

Of last week’s racing post

Chorus

So come on down to Maylor Street

To a place where you’ll get fed

Lay out some dosh

For some princely nosh

By your stomach

You’ll get led

He shuts up shop at 9 O’clock

He lives the life of Reilly

Oh Oh Oh Mattie Kiely

An order quickly taken

Our hero moves with speed

It’s passed along with assured aplomb

So the process can proceed

Another thirty seconds and

Your table’s deftly laid

And with no delay I can safely say

Your bill is tilled and paid

Along the polished counter top

Your elbow slowly slides

As the tension mounts

You do all but count

The amount of broken tiles

A wave of paranoia makes

You think you’ve been ignored

A later ordered burger

Disappearing out the door

Chorus

And up the length of Maylor Street

From a place where you’ll get fed

Lay out some dosh

For some princely nosh

By your stomach you’ll get led

In unemployed society

He’s spoken of quite highly

Oh oh oh Mattie Kiely

You raise your hand in protest

As our hero re-appears

But you bite your tongue

Cos the fare he’s brung

Is the best you’ve seen in years

Drenched in mushy peas

On top there floats in a crispy coat

Fresh fish from Irish seas

To finish off this master piece

A healthy dose of salt

Shook in and drenched with vinegar

The clear stuff or the malt

Your lips are licked

Your chip is picked

You spear it with your fork

It’s raised aloft and a bite bit off

Of the finest chip in Cork

The Finest chip in Cork

Chorus

But no more down on Maylor Street

Is a place where you’ll get fed

Can’t spend your dosh

On some princely nosh

By your stomach

Won’t be led

He shut the shop in February

Quietly and shyly

Oh oh oh Mattie Kiely