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'I'm fed up looking like Father Christmas,'Muttered Father Christmas one year.'I need a new outfit. I must move with the times.
He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.
That fire, they said, was red as red as redas red as a fox, your lips, a cherry;that fire, they said spread and spread and spread,faster than a cheetah or a nasty rumour;
His name is called and there's a pause
just long enough to halt a war
tame timber wolves and trim their claws
hide diamonds in a secret drawer
He swears on his mother's life he wasn't there.
And if he was there
he swears on his mother's life it wasn't him.
And if it was him
Forest could keep secretsForest could keep secrets
There she was on the news,Miss Goody Two Shoescaught on CCTV.
Don't look so shocked.Of course you know who – who else but Goldilocks!
It's New Year, 1979, at Funderland in the RDS in Dublin. In the cold calculation of the January air, a young girl tries to talk
I like to stay upand listenwhen big people talkingjumbie stories
I does feelso tingly and excitedinside me
But when my mother say“Girl, time for bed”
Nobody can see my name on me.My name is insideand all over me, unseenlike other people also keep it.Isn't my name magical?