We made chips all night while the hookers
And local ladies ignoring local fuckers
Lay down for the brave men of the jfk
Moored off dun laoghaire
And the local boys wanked alone in empty rooms
Like forgotten heirlooms

Women swooned and told husbands to fuck off
As they charged after the white suited sailor men

And at 5am stinking of fish
And burned oil
I turned and said
We’ve no more fucking chips
Ya imperial bastards, go home!

And so another year went carried away
By an aircraft carrier
That had loomed like death
Out there in our little bay

and perhaps

Some war
Had been delayed and some violence disturbed
By our brave, wet and willing local birds.