Sean Nós-feratu

A story, in rhyme, about respecting your traditions.

Waking up on a Sunday after taking a sup

I couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t get up

The missus came in and said “Give up drinking ale!”

But conceded after my protests that I looked unusually pale.

 

Now, I’m not a man that gets into terrible states from drink

And my unusual condition this morning made me think

About anything strange or unusual that happened me last night

To make me awaken feeling like I’d eaten dog shite.

 

So, I was in the local with the regular blokes

And had six pints, no whiskey, and one or two smokes

I didn’t leave my pint unattended, so I know I wasn’t spiked

And I didn’t go to the chipper, so it wasn’t a burger that my insides disliked.

 

My energy levels were terrible, I felt unnaturally weak

It took a massive effort to reach the kitchen to wet my beak

Perhaps my tolerance for booze was beginning to wear out?

No that couldn’t be it, sure I’m a demon for stout.

 

I forgot about it for the next few days

And time passed quickly, my thoughts in a haze

Until the following dark Thursday night driving past the cemetery

I spotted a man in black, and he was staring straight at me.

 

My first reaction of course, was to beep the horn and wave

Never thinking it odd, that the lad was getting out of a grave

How do I know him? I put my brain through the wringer

Bejaysyus! That’s yer man from the other night! The Sean Nós singer.

 

He was in the local the previous Saturday and sang a couple of tunes

And I remember in the smoking area his lighter was made of bone, and decorated with ancient runes

I told him how his constant interruptions were being the ruination

Of the craic we were having in the pub, and my friends and I conversation.

 

Was it my imagination, or did his eyes then glow red?

Or is this the usual post hangover anxious build up of dread?

Perhaps he’s just one of those alternative trad reformers

That add gimmicks to their act to be more memorable performers.

 

Something didn’t feel right, I decided to call my spouse

But a stranger answered the phone. The cunt was in the house!

I stalled the car, it wouldn’t go in to the right gear

So I jumped out and ran, fueled by my fear.

 

When I got to the house my terror increased

The music of Foster & Allen was blaring, what is this strange beast?

I could barge in the door, or use tactics of stealth

But first things first, I had to arm myself.

 

What would be best, a close combat weapon, or one of range?

Or harness trad singers’ biggest fear – change?

I laughed at my joke, that lightened the mood

Then was sobered by the fact that my wife was being held captive by this dude.

 

So I picked up the closest thing to hand

An old wooden hurley, sure this’ll do grand.

I entered the house screaming my wife’s name

Throwing stealth out the window, to save my eternal flame

 

The beast appeared in front of me, a grin on his pale face

And raised his hands in welcome, as if he owned the fucking place.

Usually this is the part where the villain explains his motives and final plan,

But I didn’t have time to listen to his shite, I’m a busy man.

 

So before he had time to open his evil mouth

I swung the hurl as hard as I could and knocked him clean out.

When he fell, I ran to the sitting room and turned off the racket,

Then found my sobbing wife and wrapped her in my jacket

 

She was cold from fright, despite being tied up in front of the fire

Wouldn’t you be if you were attacked by a fucking vampire?

She was fine, she hadn’t been bit or hurt in any way

And I told her that we’d both live to fight, laugh and love another day.

 

But would you Adam and Eve it, I spoke too soon

The beast reappeared, making me feel like a goon.

His long fangs were bared and his cape billowed around his back

I thought, Jesus, such a load of hassle to go through every night for a snack.

 

He advanced on me, obviously revitalised from his brief rest

When all of a sudden the wife shoved a poker through his chest.

He disintegrated immediately into a cloud of dust

And I don’t want to admit this, but I suppose I must:

 

I’m now writing a Sean Nós song about the Vampire and how my wife was triumphant,

and if a trad singer interrupts the craic in the pub, it’s best to reserve judgement.

Because, it happened to me and could happen to you,

Be targeted for death by a dreaded Sean Nósferatu.

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