The Irish man, he of the Glen
We are bogmade not of Fen
To us a tree is a crown, and a road sounds like a cow
When you want it done shout anois, they’ll know you want it now
Liza’s ladies and her quisling spymasters, lorecrackers and invisible inkers
Crossed finger across table winkers
They are not keen on Ireland and speak of her emerald flanks in Enochian
“To the mainland the frigates and primed canons fit to sink us
To the west our dear sister island, its ape men foul with drink.”
They are linked by lineage each and every one of them
Their features exaggerated by genetic proximity
Their positions assured by legalised simony
My Kinsmen to hell or to Connacht sent
The windswept dell pushed by god’s breath
The land’s breadth, theirs and ours, with only the slightest seas between
Plenty room for both of us, yet eight hundred years over a tale repeats
A holy land enslaved by beasts, every dream, dram and denari is seized
Every holy mass is ceased, every rapine pillage borne from our east
We are the least of men, our deceased were holy but we are not them
Print pictures of pantroglodytes dancing merry jigs jarred up
Bury pictures of child grave crosses, down the land and up
Tragedy’s child he takes his beetleblack porter in four sups
Wears a long pup face, believes in old puck, Púca and Dúchas
The old pug pinchface wog-hater the overseas annihilator they call Churchill
We’ve had churches on hills longer than Britain has had tilled fields
We illuminated manuscripts while they were having sex with trees
They sent troops over to put us in line, men from France, fresh from the frontline
The lorryback not unlike the shell-racked billet beds, fewer rats
Lanes full of traps, mapless backroads where a Tommy shouldn’t go
Better to know before that one should know better than after, so
The dead might say if they could.
Would-be assassins wait in Kilmacud, hoping to shoot Collins in Stillorgan
With lead to still his organ, big fella who lead us, left us most of the country
Dev’s breath still toxic gas to some, shots were fired but he made it home
Hardly safe though, dún do bhéal, béal na bláth, blast his blasted beret off
Britain’s mass continues to increase, the lands congeal like greasetrap grease (removed at no one’s ease, ask my dad)
They wear black like priests and tan like poachers
We’ve planted bombs around all their approaches
Shots fired but not at the crossbar, screaming parents and coaches
Bloodspattered Sabbath due a sequel, they are wholly in control of us
In Her Liffey hear wasping gunboats morning stillness peels
In the still-living I sense full songthroats, lusting out lost zeals
On steps unfurl a declaration and christen Her anew
Every time that Éire speaks, roofed Brit rifles shoot.
Alchemisland 
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