In it, Brigid refers to her parents as tubby, or, if you will, "tooby."
I wrote this piece as a response from the perspective of Brigid's father.
If you want to know more about Katie, check out her web site.
You can find there an audio version of her poem about Brigid, which will help a great deal in deciphering the following.
James Stewart Mulrooney to his Daughter Brigid
“...don’t want ta be tooby like me ma
or me da...”
I’ll give the jung missus tubby?
“Paht yer hond on em anywhere”
Paht yer hond anywhere on me
and the next thing outta yer mouth’ll be a
stump speech, I guarantee thot.
Jung missus invitin’ the whole neighborhood to be
paht-in their honds on me.
Blamin’ me “gray whiskers and gray ways”
on me gray food. I got news for ya me darlin’.
There’s nuthin’ fer gray whiskers like a moonth fool a
past-midnights of cholicky screamin’ fer hours, and hours,
and hours on end: thar’s a revolutionary for ye,
snot nosed wailing and screamin and shriekin
from the moment she hit her crib.
And me gray work. Who’s she think poots the
mango orange and champagne booble spangles on her
dinner table? Think it cooms from the Gawd’s honest graces
of Mrs. Thatcher, and Mr. Major, or that free-trade poppinjay
Mr. Blair? There’s nuthin’ in Ireland for an honest Catholic
save work that’s grayer than Cleveland November.
Who exactly is it Brigid, who is it pays for those records by the
Beatles and Stevie “shooby-doooby-do-dah-“ Wonder?
What do you reckon its like for a collier working the graveyard
shift, with a daughter who’ll throw back her head
and unfurl her tongue for every Tom, Dick, and Harry
she mistakes for the second revolutionary coming
of Jaysis? For Charles Stewart Parnell’s sake,
the gair-rel would make luv to a Black and Tan.
No, Bridgy dear, it’s nawt Jaysis, but the where-ld ‘at has
“a tittilatin bit a nuthin draped across its altogether.”
It’s called childhood.
It’s called family.
For all we know, you could be at some trook stop datin’
Osama bin Laden, you could be George W. Bush’s private
circus tutor, and when the hurt cooms
we’d still be here waitin for ye
to pick ye oop,
and hug ye in the softest, toobiest, lovingest arms
this side of Paradise.