Discontent and the tragedy of poverty
starve our bloody English history of
truth as the political tanks, soldier boys and
girls march past peace and hope. A simple
twist of fate and green bullets have masked a ceasefire and
nothing is left but blood and havoc to wreck a longing for
tolerance. See the defiance deep in Phoenix Park, religion
and farce unite while idle, drunk children spray paint
‘Fuck The Brits’ on pocked brick walls and
dear, old Louis sleeps twenty feet under.
‘Father Ted is a lovely old bloke but all priests are paedos’ and
confusion soaks ignorance and keeps rolling on.
Our Irish tradition is rich in Yeats, drenched in Bushmills.
The Maze, a legacy of famine, meaning
spuds sands dirty protest and a clean, fresh start.
An opportunity for murder at Enniskillen brought retribution
and a commitment to the legitimate suffering of ár fir.