Bert's Brave Ascent - a poem by JK

This time he had to do it without the aid of his broomstick






As we made our way to Westport,
For a weekend full of fun,
Croagh Patrick rose to greet us,
Like the rays of the morning sun.

This Holy mountain grabs you,
In a special kind of grip,
It’s hard to put it into words,
Like some awe-inspiring trip.

Now Bert was up for most things,
But he vowed to skip the Reek,
It’s not my scene at all guys,
Sure it would play havoc with my feet.

But D was having none of that,
She was on a special mission,
If he didn’t toe the family line,
He’d be banished to Hell’s Kitchen.

The slaggin’ just kept flowing,
And the mud-slinging got fierce thick,
And like all good dirt thrown hard and fast,
Some was surely bound to stick.

Now Bert was proud and steady,
Never one to give an inch,
But up against this stubborn bunch,
His poor resolve began to flinch.

He thumped his fist down on the bar,
Five locals jumped with fright,
I’ll climbed that blasted beast midday,
If ye will all stay bloody quiet.

A cheer went up around the bar,
As the word spread far and near,
Another virgin for a brave ascent,
Or would it end in tears.

We headed off to the Holy shrine,
On the eve of Valentine’s Day,
His designer runners did not inspire,
By Jesus was he going to pay.

Now Bert had gold dust in his eyes,
As he gazed up at the mist,
Sure if Patrick did it years ago,
It had to be a bit of piss.

But the Clane man was no snake charmer,
And the owner of some dodgy knees,
With ten pints still in his system,
Below a full Irish and two hot teas.

It was not the wisest prepping,
For such a sacred assault,
But as he bounded past the statue,
It was too late to call a halt.

He took off like the clappers,
Ignoring the warning signs,
You’ve got to treat Croker with respect,
Like a woman in her prime.

The climb was slow and painful,
He was even passed by toddlers,
Halfway up he cried enough,
Saying it was all a load of cobblers.

But egged on by his sister Kate,
Who said don’t be such a pussy,
You’ll end up like Dustin Hoffman,
In that comedy classic Tootsie.

He slipped and skidded up the Reek,
It was like watching Bambi on ice,
Celtic saints turned in their graves,
For his language was far from nice.

With huffs and puffs he reached the top,
Despite the flips and blips,
One young buck was heard to say,
He was like a tomato with stuck-on lips.

But the views alone are worth it,
And Clew Bay never looked so fine,
He pointed to his protruding toes,
Resembling wooden pegs on old clotheslines.

Did he feel spiritually uplifted?
By one of the West’s great joys,
Bert said he felt more elevated,
On a bar stool in Matt Molloys.