THE BUTCHER (Paul O’Brien)

 

I’ll tell you of a butcher

With a shop down in our street

And he’s not one to flaunt

His cuts of sirloin meat

Or show off piles of mince

Chopped up on a tray

Or put a bunch of bangers out

In a pinky meat display

 

We know a witch who crashes in

Every Halloween

And it’s there that Frankenstein

And monsters can be seen

And sometimes Easter bunnies

Jumping by the score

Blocking up the window

And bouncing ‘round the floor

 

Topping off the season

That we call good cheer

Santa comes to visit

Every single year

The boys and girls they queue

And promise to behave

And line up for their presents

Down in Santy’s cave

 

These displays all come and go

To decorate the front

Depending on the time of year

The weather and the month

And sometimes for no reason

He’ll put down a model train

And if he doesn’t like it sure

He takes it up again

 

But there’s one thing that he has

Always fresh in stock

A smile and chat for anyone

Who comes to take a look

At the tons and tons of pictures

Collected with great care

Safe in big grey folders

Ready to be shared

 

Every page reads like a book

And Paddy knows the name

Of nearly every person there

And every football game

Memories in the best of hands

And safe for all to see

And if you keep him talking

You might get a cup of tea

 

But one snap is a puzzle

Paddy’s never figured out

He’s written letters to the press

Made enquiries all about

It’s a picture of a pantomime

In forty-two or three

With a mystery Ali Baba

And a whole big gang of thieves

 

So if you need a photo

Of your mammy or your gran

Or the team you used to play for

In the days there was a ban

Just pop in to Paddy

You can give your soul a treat

Talk about the good old days

And score a pound of meat