“Who are you to air this wordy rant,
These thoughts you intend to show,
A shaky soapbox your foundations,
What the hell do you know?”
My head is a muddle,
My thoughts slip slosh like out,
Onto this victim paper,
A cowards beastly shout.
They say one man can’t move a mountain,
And yet, we’re one man made,
Feeney reared young minds once wandered,
Gave this island back her scholars,
Put books in the heart of Munster,
Pumping silicone to shores once lonely,
The Party Public bathed in glory,
As the tiger licked her paws.
But as our scholars flourished,
Our saints backbones did bend,
Patrick rid this land of danger,
Yet there’s hissing in the house of Leinster,
Our eyes once squinted shut,
Blinded by the gleam of gold,
And now our magic money vanished,
Their camouflage grows old.
And we insist their friend not foe,
But what the hell do I know?
Its been swelling, and brewing and brooding,
The skin harbours buried blisters,
The under currents rife,
And still the sea just ripples,
Its ferocious power ponders,
On the realities of life.
We’re stealing from our children,
Wishing our elders to their grave,
Sucking life from the disadvantaged,
All hard pennies fought,
Grabbed back into burning pockets,
Of criminals not caught.
As our people cry themselves to sleep,
Inside walls they’ll never own,
As our pride is stomped by dirty boots,
Our confidence stripped bare,
They debate the blasphemous,
Outlaw the holy swear.
And now, our heads hang critically low,
But then again, what the hell do I know?
We once had pride,
And power,
And passion.
We relished in the craic,
The laugh,
And the skit,
We were a remarkable people,
Our generosity matched only by our wit.
Don’t let the politics break us,
Don’t let the spirits wane,
Let our voices speak volumes,
Let us march through the driving rain.
We are Irish, blood and bone,
Our love mapped in calloused hands,
Daily we face the savage seas wrath,
We can reclaim these lands.
And so my angers easing,
And I know what I have to show,
I know I love my country,
This is what I know.
