Yesterday,

our troubles seemed

so far away,

an hour or two

was amiably passed,

our local hummed

and hawed with

talk of balls

and whistles

refs and bags of wind.

Mid thoughtful pauses,

loud guffaws,

we sat and sipped,

and watched

the world

go by,

through open doors,

a blustery breeze

gave some respite

from blistering sun,

then, in he came,

with pissed up stagger,

him, again,

beer-bellied,

loud flag-shagger

wannabe crusader,

his hobby? dressing up

on bloody youtube

as Richard the Fourth,

droning on ‘bout Muzzies,

that Daily Heil-soaked oaf,

bemoaning empty churches,

daggers ceremonial,

slurring fictional memories

of good old times colonial:

so, up I stood,

and off I fucked

as steadily as

my knees allowed,

to a room

where peace and reason,

did prevail,

poetic thoughts

meandering through

my quietened mind.

 

Then joy, sweet joy,

‘twas off, he pissed,

that bore, not missed,

that gammon, cooled,

restored, our peace,

old England still

a pleasant land.

 

Le Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh,

Dé Máirt, an tríochadú lá is fiche de mhí an Mheitimh,

2026, an bhliain dhá mhíle is fiche a sé.