Pot Pourri

(11/5/2013)  A Toupee - Poem - The Toupee Tim Pat Wore


The toupee Tim Pat wore, now folks, was as weird as it was rare
And not the kinda toupee that them high fulooters wear;
Tim Pat he nivir tried to match the colour of the hair
Sez he: ‘No point pretending when there’s nothing really there.’

At 15 years Tim Pat he had/ to face the dreaded phallic challenge
Wan day a great big lump of hair fell in his oinion sandwich;
By 16 years Tim Pat, ochón, was balder than an egg -
He could strike (strake) a match on his baldy pate when he went to light his feg!

But, Tim Pat was the resourceful kind, he met fire with more fire,
So he rummaged round a day or two in the pigcrew and the byre
Till he fell upon a purta creel made up of good strong wire
‘Bedad,’ sez Tim Pat, ‘the very thing, that’s just what I require.’

Well, he used his wire cutters and cut it into shape;
A nice tight fit that sat just right upon his naked pate.
He then got hay and barley straw and a twig or two of heather,
Spent wan striking week by the tilley lamp till he’d weaved it all the gether.

To secure this new contraption upon his naked pate
No velcro, glue or other things high fulooters use of late;
He went out intae the hayshed and found some bailer twine
And tied it tight beneath his chin to secure it from the wind.

Now Tim Pat’s toupee, when truth is told, was a marvel to behold
And folk would came from far and near on foot and donkey load;
They’d face all kinds of weather and thole all kinds of sores
In hopes they’d get wan fleetin’ glance of the toupee Tim Pat wore.

And birds were known to nest in it - forebye the odd wee mouse or two
At midnight Mass last Easter out popped a Bombay cockatoo.
And other birds could come and nest just depending on the season (sazin)
And some folk swear last Christmas time they saw a turkey grazin’.

But, Tim Pat’s renown was destined, folks, to go beyond Lislabber
Reared on spuds and raw eggs and him knee-deep in clabber.
Wan day a wild wind it did blow from faraway Winsconsin -
Blew rucks of hay and stooks of corn from hell tae far-off Connacht.

That day, as fate would have it, Tim Pat was on his rounds
On his donkey foddering cattle (kettle) way up on mountainy ground;
The wind it snapped the bailer twine that held the toupee down
And blew it right clane aff his head and was last-seen Atlantic-bound.

Like wan of them extra-terrestial yokes it flew the country wide
Thro Buckna, Ringaskiddy, Belmullet and Athy;
It scared the folk in Dublin town as it flew up O’Connell Street
And bid goodbye to Paddy’s shores as it cleared Magillacuddy’s Reeks.

But, Tim Pat was the optimisitic soort and saw good in every ill
‘Tis a ill wind, man,’ sez the bould Tim Pat, ‘that won’t help tae pay me bills.
And sure enough as fate would have it his toupee did deliver
Cause it plonked itself right on the head of Statue, man, of Liberty.

When Tim Pat he had heard the news that his pride and joy was safe
He bought a sprink new pair of dungarees and washed the wellies clean (clane)
Yoked up the cart and donkey and got the boat that sailed from Cork
And in two short weeks was headline news in Times Square in New York.

Ye see, folks out there had nivir witnessed such a wondrous yoke before
And experts of every class and creed they camped outside his door
They analysed and fantasised, some prayed, some even swore
And all the while Tim Pat played cute as he saw his fortunes soar.

They invited him on T.V. shows that went from coast to coast
Of every bar in New York town Tim Pat he was the toast
But, six months in he’d had enough of this pretence and fuss
So, he gathered up his toupee and got on a Greyhound bus.

Tim Pat returned with his pockets lined to his wee hut in Lislabber
Whilst them expert folk from USA have their high renown in tatters
They’ll have to hang their lofty heads in shame forevermore
All taken in for fools, ha-ha, by the toupee Tim Pat wore.