II
She was known as Titsy Moo
By the regular motley crew
Her dimensions were a secret none could tell
But for all her massive tanks
She had slimness in the shanks
And the Bishop tipped his hat to her as well.

III
Though the boffin worked for Apple
And fast figures were his game
He had never yet accessed a female breast
Until he came by chance
To that bar-room of romance
And browsed upon that luscious treasure chest.

IV
His life before that time
Was consistently on-line
His only aim to get his macros right
He could interface with rams
And configurate his roms
And when hungry he would have a megabyte.

V
He was short not of a bob
Being top cat on the job
And his habit was to save his mega bucks
As tight as crab's rear end
On drink he would not spend
And copulation was a matter for the ducks.

VI
On the night he drifted in
To that noisy hill-top inn
And saw those twin compressors through the smoke
His C-drive began switching
His floppy started twitching
And his multi-sync went into fast track mode.

VII
He looked across at Moo
Pulling pints of darkest hue
And boldly propositioned then and there.
Titsy Moo with hands on hips
And a sneer across her lips
Started laughing in that smoky din and glare.

VIII
She started with a giggle
Contorted to a wiggle
And transposed it to a roar that all could hear,
Her mammaries were dancing
On the shelves the glasses prancing
And window panes were shattered in the square.

IX
When Moo had simmered down
And re-arranged her gown
The boffin was by now a nervous wreck
'If you want me in your flat
With your laptop and your cat
You must carry out a mission at my beck.'

X
In tones of strangled stress
Eyeing the bodice of her dress
The boffin excavated his assent
'From the bowels of data base
To the top of booting brace
Your slightest wish engenders my consent.'

XI
There was silence in the bar
As the punters strained to hear
And Moo was in a vicious ugly mood
'Listen up and listen good
And return to this pub
With a pint of coal-black porter from THE WOOD.'

XII
The boffin pale and white
Staggered off into the night
As the guffaws of Big Moo came loud and clear.
He returned before the dawn
With designer undies torn
And cauliflowers where previously were ears.

XIII
'Undone I am and failed
And me honour is assailed
And me hands are hanging helpless to me knees
I have fast-tracked every spinney
From Marlogue Wood up to Cuskinny
And found no coal-black porter in the trees.'

XIV
Outstanding her twin screws
Moo retorted to the news
Delivered with all his wimpish brass
'If your brains were dynamite
They wouldn't have the might
To blow your fancy knickers from your arse'.

XV
Now broken and undone
With no 'udder' chance of fun
The boffin was distraught and prone to cry
And to zoom his agitation
Moo surpassed her own inflation
With a breadth that blew a bra hook in his eye.

XVI
'If your buns were made of gold
And you scrotum rubies hold
You'd never find me supine in your flat
You can come and browse the view
And I'll take your shekles too
But I'll never join your laptop and your cat.'

XVII
There's a double-breasted barmaid
In a pub above the hill
Sillhouetted in a way that's big and round
There's a skeletal thin boffin
Drinking pints of Murphy's brew
As the double-breasted barmaid gazes down.

The man who loved you for yourself alone
And not your golden crown of sun-kissed fronds
Has never heard me solemnly intone:
O Gentlemen, they say, will prefer blondes

The City snared me in its silken net
Wherein I balanced all, except the loot
And, soaring heavenward, I did forget
To pack my passport and my parachute

Under bare Ben Bulben's bulbous head
The Dooney fiddler plays a merry tune
Listen! No poet turns in his cold bed
But meanwhile in a graveyard at Roquebrune...

Turning and returning in a gyre
I think of Homer (Simpson) at his worst:
Hey Bart, your coming second's not so dire
Second's right up there, just after First!

This peacful island then I did forsake
for Brussels and a job with the EC
The butter-mountain and the deep wine-lake
The euro-salary, of course, tax-free

He went out to a hazel wood to see
What was the fuss about a six-lane road
He met a young girl, now he's up a tree
An eco-warrior called Aengus Toad

       For the dancers love the dancing
       The revellers their drams
       I love of an April evening
       The silence of iambs

Your seasons are all out of rhyme:
you should be cleaving to the Rock
of Ages, yet you waste your time
in vain pursuit, against the clock
of poetry; your paltry chime
has wormholed through the lock.

We must insist you forthwith lock
the nursery door upon all rhyme
of unicorn and red-eyed roc,
the hick'ry-dick'ry mouse of time,
Wee Willie Winkie's eight o'clock,
Oranges n' Lemons chime.

Forget the Golden Treasury's chyme,
the out of date Rape of the Lock,
Those ancient mariners of rhyme:
O Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!
(a problem solved all in good time
by Harrison's fine clock).

When pumpkin-like at 12 o'clock
your forehead butts the front-door chime,
the wrong key jiggling in the lock,
the dogs take up the woof of rhyme,
the hand that makes the cradle rock
will coldly ask: What time

do you call this? - it's borrowed time!
There is no ten-to-three stopp't clock
so let go of that wine-keg's chime;
your ghost may shake a gory lock
or two but no amount of rhyme
can stay the pendulum's rock.

Long past the time of seaside rock
and schoolbook rhyme. Let us unlock
the graveyard, chime the old church clock.