Kevin Higgins sharpened his pencil quickly for this one and comes out with some lyrical verse dedicated to the demise of the Irish Labour party.
Available in five resistible flavours.
Our leader’s voice is a teenage girl upstairs malpracticing her trumpet on a wet Monday in Mullhuddart; could perhaps be installed in an elevator that only goes to the basement, for even we can bear it no more.
Her Deputy’s roaring red skull might be ground into a tincture, and given away free to men with the more extreme type of erectile issue.
Our sole remaining representative in the Midlands is a giant quivering, fifty nine year old bottom best served boiled with bile green cabbage and bacon so slippery your fork has to chase it around the plate and eventually give up.
Our man in north County Dublin keeps such a low profile even his own wife doesn’t recognise him when he slips into bed beside her.
Our presence down the entire Western sea board reduced to a narrowly re-elected pair of glasses attached to a Limerick woman who once believed in Deng Shou-ping, until he phoned the Niall Boylan show, straight from Hell, to say he wants nothing further to do with the likes of her.
Please enquire within. All offers gratefully accepted.