This poem was originally posted on this blog in 2010. I’m reposting it again, partly due to nostalgia and also because I believe there is something here that needs to be read.
Under a fallen fortress
returned to its use as a post office
celebrities stood and shouted,
explaining their rules of engagement:
we do not want you to do
what you are doing;
why won’t you take us to ruin
the way we want you to?
Lit by the light of flares
on ice trodden streets
children don’t play in;
sell out, bail out, get out,
among other complaints
shouted with the vigour
of beleaguered football fans.
On the other hand:
arrangements in the shape of twelve point five
should do enough to maintain some jobs
as someone has to pay for the plans
to pay for the money that everyone borrowed;
sure, how were we to know that someday
someone might want to get it back?
All our fault apparently,
the money from Brussels
A.K.A. Der Bundes Republik.
that is what the television
told me of the situation
a mere 8999 kilometres away,
with wonderful graphics flashing
in the direction of what looks like
a thirty-two county republic:
at least the Sinners will
be happy about that.
“There’ll be some very worried homes this Christmas”
but that’s what they say every seventh
and two weeks later it’s all down the pub
for the last of the Christmas pints now,
the last Christmas pints there now folks.
*Price not effected by the recession*
This is where we stand today
waiting again for someone to say
that Ireland will be alright,
just be sure to keep warm in the night.
I see young fellas are emigrating less
no one will have anyone from our mess.
At least there is an election soon
but most of us would rather gallows
where heads could be removed to a rebel tune
played by mighty tricolour draped fellows
singing songs of the decisions of an awful goon
and a dome of pleasure now a tree, rotten hollow.
The Wild Geese would hang their heads
Don’t follow them yet, we must bury our dead.
– By Conor O’Reilly