DA, THE MELODEON
for Joe Lordan
Of quavers and keys
Da haven’t a notion
But still an’all
he plays the melodeon.
He can white-puddin the moon
Beamish the ocean
Fry seventeen eggs
and play the melodeon.
Ignorin gales and floods
and coastal erosion
He climbs up Saint Fin Barre’s
and plays the melodeon.
He hammers the Trojans
and leathers the Spartans
As he snores on the sofa
and blows the melodeon.
One Christmas Eve well-on
he stripped down to his jocks
And he rodeoed a herd
of buffalo in the garden.
The horns enlocked
the whirlin snouts
The nipples of all
bellowed with emotion.
I loved all that
but was more thrilled
By his right left foot
that played the melodeon.
Of quavers and crotchets
Da haven’t a notion
Yet the muses adore him
when he plays the melodeon.
Oh yeh the muses adore him
when he blows that melodeon!
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Note that in West Cork Melodeon is pronouned Mell-o-jin, with the accent on o.
Lordan’s Lit 