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by Patricia Walsh

Nothing I can do can change this,

The wanton distance causing eventual delighyt.

The public fawning, pleasantries enlightened

Solid in its passing, a few long years

Cemented in electronic speech, a brilliant argument.


What can I do but elaborate on nothing?

Once we fancied just ourselves, pitting in switch

As nature unintended, a passing crime

Reasoned out by a faithful message

It stays here, when the tirades don’t reach.


Crying on distant shoulders is my final lot

Exhausting concern over my doloration

A better situatiohn is already mine

Not realising, of course, in my infinite misery

Not coming from Finglas or Ballymun.


Making use of what’s left, a popular death

Spirited away to a softer reality

A regime to savour, kicking against the glasses

Broken with intent, to shame all and sundry

Not touching the intended is new key.


Slaughtering cheries cows is a righteous act

Waking up incarcerated a just reward

Not hurting other parties, no wish to cut

Away from parties, third or otherwise

Scratching at coffins with delight.

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