Brendan's Bargain

Now listen and I'll tell you a story,
Better, I'll make it a rhyme,
Of a man I knew when I was a lad,
And how he served his time,
Not following the normal procedure,
But ten years afore his crime.

In the heart of England, Birmingham town,
Industry's site of revolution.
Where Bolton built Watt's steam engine,
And Priestly his Oxygen solution.
The first screw, cars, motorcycles,
And industrial pollution.

Liam was his name, as Irish as they come,
By trade, a pro-boxer.
Friend of Danny Macalinden, Jack Bodell, 
and ``Our Enery'' Cooper.
But Liam was also in with the likely lads,
like Larry the promoter.

Now Larry had a club on the ringway,
``The Sweet Life''was its name.
A little risqu\'e, but not too overt,
Larry knew to play the game,
Enough of a show for the punters,
for the fuzz, keep it tame.

One night a punter never made it home,
nor even to the nick,
The word was that Larry's bouncers,
had given him stick.
The Bill was looking for his license,
carrying an interdict.

On the street we waited for the shudder
of Larry hitting the ground.
In his pocket were half the cops in Brum,
three squares and all found,
But a bloody dead body not even Larry
could waltz his way around.

Then Liam gave a statement to the cops,
``I didn't know my own strength.
He said the Irish were no-good thugs.
So I hit him, last July 10th."
We knew then that Liam was going away;
only question was the length.

The judge ruled with all due speed,
no wish to wait, you see.
Against him his fists, in his favour,
his voluntary guilty plea.
How many years for his manslaughter ?
Not five, not four, but three.

So Liam did his porridge, not too hard,
he'd been in the square ring.
And Larry kept his club, going strong,
which was no little thing.
Liam's thoughts were brightened
by what his time would bring.

At the top of our street, two roads over,
across from the corner pub.
Stood the leavings of better years,
the Barry Upton night club.
Where once you'd get an after-hours drink,
or a decent piece of grub.

Larry fixed it up, shining like a pin,
the ``New Barry Upton''.
And Liam got the keys when the screws
let him out of prison.
So they each got what they wanted
from their little con.

For seven years everything was great.
Liam was in the pink.
The club was there for a T-bone steak,
or a late, overpriced drink.
Just tell 'em that you knew Liam;
they'd open up with a wink.

Then one dog-day night it all blew up,
Christie was on the door.
Two brothers, already with a skinful,
came by looking for more.
Christie sent 'em packing, never thinking
there'd be a bloody encore.

Christie was gone when they turned up,
a shotgun in one hand,
Dave and Johnny had taken his place,
while he watched the band,
Dave gulped and grabbed for the gun;
Johnny went to the promised land.

The brothers were tumbled off to the cops,
shotgun along for the ride,
Soon they had a hot-shot lawyer, paid by who ?
Crazy to be on their side.
Bail came too, but we didn't think they'd skip,
where could they hide ?

Soon the word was that they'd been left
down where the sun never shone.
Liam had paid the suit, ante'd the bail,
knew where and when they'd gone.
It seemed with ten years advance payment
you got two for the price of one.