Sing Your Song. Dance Your Dance. Tell

He Sits In An Old Armchair In The Corner Covered With Bits Of Blankets And A Bucket Behind The Chair That Stinks Enough To Make You Sick And When You Look At That Old Man In The Dark Corner You Want To Get A Hose With Hot Water And Strip Him And Wash Him Down And Give Him A Big Feed Of Rashers And Eggs And Mashed Potatoes With Loads Of Butter And Salt And Onions.i Want To Take The Man From The Boer War And The Pile Of Rags In The Bed And Put Them In A Big Sunny House In The Country With Birds Chirping Away Outside The Window And A Stream Gurgling.

People Everywhere Brag And Whimper About The Woes Of Their Early Years, But Nothing Can Compare With The Irish Version: The Poverty; The Shiftless Loquacious Father; The Pious Defeated Mother Moaning By The Fire; Pompous Priests; Bullying School Masters; The English And The Terrible Things They Did To Us For Eight Hundred Long Years. Above All -- We Were Wet.

Just Let Them Sit In The Goddam Sun. But The World Won't Let Them Because There's Nothing More Dangerous Than Letting Old Farts Sit In The Sun. They Might Be Thinking. Same Thing With Kids. Keep 'em Busy Or They Might Start Thinking.

The Main Thing I Am Interested In Is My Experience As A Teacher.

You Feel A Sense Of Urgency, Especially At My Advanced Age, When You're Staring Into The Grave.