A wild hunt rides out tonight
Hate is sallied forth
Troubles now are here again
What did we learn up North?
Send them all underground like the Poddle
“Send them all back” its backing breaking bottles
The ill-thought glow of a public bus in flames
Tear chairs out and carry them up the Gaol
Execute the Gael, upon them seat James.
Ana Livia I live here and could more make
Of breaks spent refusing requests for change
The Green goes red, the red is green, easter egg 1916
Skyline laws and peeling frontages, Blessing basins by ton, and Burgesses
Dublin’s not one for change
The change is never spare.
To do for Dublin, to be its Blake
Garda bike the Liffey takes
Clandestine as a married man’s Fetlife username
Print it all, Ashley Madison, immortalised on Traitor’s Gate
Leon jumped into the Liffey, on its bridge the youth getting lippy
In Garda’s face, he returns the lean projecting strength
Hoping comrades will invade the scene.
The sound of Irish rebellion is a wailed air from a keening woman
The anguished wail of a beauty-leched crone
A blood-bloated battle God whose icon is a crow
The Dwarven rhythm of iron working stone
Rebellion here has a distinctive air
A smell you’d know, an old one, a vintage rare
Wolfe Tones escaping the stout-stripped cheeks of the men who’re there.
Liars light the beacon fires inciting false rebellion
Aren’t your countrymen frightened inside? You are, all of you, Trevelyan
No foreign man on Irish shores will loot thy corn for thy family’s stores
Meanwhile on every wall a pale-eyed Eastern gentleman crowned in thorns
Forgiver of forgivers, Enoch that Cain built, Enoch that spoke of rivers, Gods with horns
Riots relish, the city hellish again recalling old destructions; upriver, approaching forms
Drakeprowed viking vessels and direct invited Norman settlers
Arnott’s gutted and cameras culprits spy, what you’d imagine: spides, idlers and should-be-spayeds
We have taken up our hod and spade and ensured that public transport is yonks delayed
We left behind our God and said ‘sure, let’s have something that’s worse instead’
We have always been a mongrel breed, loam bed that rejects no seed.
A country of tall tales, tale tellers talking their tones tuning and tales talling transcendentally
Tall men up north, not quite hyperborean or Pictish but a breed apart, Giant seed
At war their well whetted bodies in violent supremacy the battle ballet, at sport their breathstealing speed
An island of ancient sports and good humoured rough stuff, Tailteann games which bring earthly fames
Men who drain drams and etch out dire dreams, Doirbh agus Draiocht and Craic agus Ceoil
Men who express disbelief through their anuses: “it is in me hole.”
Out with hatemongers down Winetavern street
Into the Liffey, we’ll observe ye all sink
The river that stinks with your blood flows sweet
The soul of the nation is suffering now, I think.
A wild hunt rides out tonight
Hate is sallied forth
Troubles now are here again
What did we learn up North?
Alchemisland 
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