Murphy's Spontaneous Combustion!

On St Paddy's Eve, in Dublin town
Poor Murphy went on fire.
With O'Toole he'd had some heated words
When he started to perspire.

Now, O'Toole swears Murphy's nostrils
Started emanatin' smoke;
(And O'Toole's not one to exaggerate,
He's not that kind of bloke.)

Soon the smoke became a fog
And billowed from his ears.
Some people thought it was a trick,
And shouted out "Three Cheers!"

But when the flames began to lick,
They ran to Paddy's Bar;
"Water, quick!" they yelled; but then
They lifted the wrong jar!

Matters went from bad to worse,
As the whiskey caught alight.
Off someone rushed to find a Priest
To give him the Last Rites.

Soon a startled Priest arrived,
Puffed and red of face;
He caught the whiff of burning fat
And mistakenly, said Grace.

The whole affair was over quick -
You might say, 'in a flash';
A Do-It-Yourself cremation,
With a tidy pile of ash.

And as they shovelled up the dust,
The priest began to pray.
"Let's get him home," he told O'Toole,
"He's looking awful grey!"

Carrying the shovel in the bus
Took some neat manoeuvrin'.
"Better warn his widow," said O'Toole,
"Just in case she's hooverin'!"

The Widow Murphy was upset,
She gave O'Toole a rocket.
"It's Friday! Could you not have grabbed
His wages from his pocket?!"

They poured him into his favourite mug,
The one without the handle;
And as a token of respect,
Nobody lit a candle.

At the funeral oration,
The priest told Murphy's story.
"Arrived on earth a humble soul,
"Left in a blaze of glory!"

Now, 'Here lies Murphy,' says his stone,
'A man of peculiar genius.
'His comprehension took a while,
'But his combustion was spontaneous!'

David McCormick