A Watery Ode to Cork

14th Feb 2014

A Watery Ode to Cork

Another year has passed and our love for Cork seems to have only grown,
Despite the rain and floods and tides, our true zeal has been shown.

“The weather’s a joke”, we often say, “Mother Nature’s having a laugh”,
But would you rather have an earthquake or typhoon knocking down your gaff?

Relax the jacks, calm down a bit, let’s not over egg the flood,
Shops might have got a soaking but there wasn’t a single drop blood.

Look through the mist and you will see that Cork’s beauty is quite a catch,
And sure every relationship we have goes through an aul dodgy patch.

When you’re out in town and rain is pouring down on all of the city’s roofs,
And anyone with a smidge of sense is decked out in waterproofs,

You might sigh out loud or shake your head, ‘will there ever be an end?’
This constant thundery driving rain could drive you round the bend.



Going at clothes with hair dryers and other drying fads,
The smell of soggy socks and jeans spread out on all your rads,

The swishing sound of fast moving vans, they splash up rivers from the tar,
The thud of an angry driver who’s just hit another pothole in his car.

Cancelled matches and called off games and the smell of soaking turf,
Instead we watch fellas on Oliver Plunkett Street checking out the surf.

Climate change and all its ills is becoming quite the menace,
Now every spring tide we get turns Cork city into a little Venice.

Cork’s watery beauty has oft been declared, in poem and in serenade,
It’s not that long since ships sailed up the Lee and tied on at Grand Parade.

And a river flowed down Patrick Street, with boats the town was hopping,
Back then a spring tide’s flow would mean: you were definitely going shopping.



At Emmet Place boats queued up, the Crawford took their tax,
And at Parnell Place merchants unloaded their barrels and their sacks.

So pointing fingers does little good, blaming the Corpo is probably harsh,
After all, it wasn’t they who decided to build this city on a marsh.

We built a street on top a river and knocked up shops on that same level,
So every now and then we have to expect to be revisited by that devil.

So while some might say ‘the end is nigh, by this river we are scourged’,
And ‘it wont be long before the city becomes completely submerged’

We say: love the one you’ve chosen, for who they really are,
And when things get tough, work around it, and wish upon a star.

Every now and then Cork troubles us with its River Lee,
But we must say to the Rebel City “It’s not you boy, it’s just me”.



We’ll have to find a way to make sure we don’t go breaking up,
Cos all this debris from the floods we’re getting sick of raking up.

Instead of cursing you however, we’ll have to work around your moody edges,
Even if that means raising all your doorways or conceding to river dredges.

For we couldn’t leave you dear old Cork, we’re in this now together,
No matter how much rain we’re handed down by those bitches who do the weather.

To you we’re wed, whether rich or poor, in sickness and in health,
Or snow or floods or something else, no matter how much the rain can pelt.

We’ll work on this, and we’ll maintain the love, you’re our beour, our feen, our fella,
Even if this relationship must mainly take place underneath a half mangled Dunnes umbrella.