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In
Sainsburied and affluent accents, swearing's
Glossed, Jamie olive-oiled, whined with faddish yawnings
Where, buffooned by the Roman excess of Three Worlds,
Mere profanities would not disturb perfect airs,
Would - as likely - win a smile as arch an eyebrow.
But I'd not surrendered yet. The Devil I had!
Ireland
was mentioned: a candle flared, then failed,
Meaningless apt sputter. Too late to bite my tongue
To taste the traitor's blood. Epater les bourgeois?
Accord is viral in these lolling dialects.
Have we ever heard the Truth? - The beer was
bitter,
That noun too measured out, studiedly emphatic.
Us
Brits are no more than a maudlin Plunderbund.
Some
turned their heads; one picked lint; a quare one nodded.
Saints are buried on the borders of such Moonshine.
Much seems to matter more to the Diaspora
Who'll sing themselves to tears for brave Nineteen
Sixteen's
James Connolly: a stained-glass souvenired martyr,
Sanctity revealed - like the exposed Heart of Christ.
Not
changed to beauty. Shot dead in a chair, rough-hewn
To splinter thousands who'd wrap The Green Flag
round them.
If we were black, nothing could rob us of our skins.
Who, here, has troubled the reasons why - or asked
why
Eight hundred years was not enough for them to learn
The simplest phrase, spell out one place-name on the
map?
D'imigh
me go luath - Sorry: I left early.
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