THE BALLAD OF TIT AND TAT

At five years old our hero Sean
got off on modelling plasticine.
In infant school at Ballyvaughan
he kneaded it in emerald green.
His teacher Miss O'Grady blushed
to see his sensual fingers poke
the patriotic dough, cheeks flushed:
'No fire,' she smiled, 'without the smoke.'
Leave mountain valleys, loughs, shebeens:
we'll blow those Prods to smithereens.

He was a good wee Catholic lad
who knew it was no sin to feign.
By six he'd sworn a Celt's jihad:
he'd have those Ulster serpents slain.
So fervent was he that his hands
explored Czech cemtex in brief weeks;
apprenticeship in foreign lands
taught him the latest bomb techniques.
Leave plasticine and other toys
and join the kitchen-chemist boys.

To complement the blazing zeal
of Sean of Ballyvaughan, we sing
of his brave counterpart, young Neil
who learned to drum the Orange King
through Popish streets behind the men
in bowler hats with heads erect.
He donned a balaclava then
and several Papist chippies wrecked.
Leave Belfast pubs and brick church halls:
we'll pulverise those Papist balls.

One evening, cheap at any price,
Sean bought a bomb and stalked around.
Now Neil had hidden his device
a DIY thing, underground;
he downed the plunger as Sean strode
around a corner: Papist soared,
exploded high above the road,
dispersing shreds of Neil abroad.
A shock solution we construct:
all politicians - self-destruct.