Like thin mints, I’ve got ten minutes until the eleven comes in
It gets stuck in Sandyford at rush hour, when the boat comes in
Pocket all the shrapnel from my empty cherry Simpkins tin
Wearing so much makeup she looks like a Simpson
How can I talk, used to have two lip rings and Lisa spikes
I’m at mount street bridge breaking roundhead ranks, bríste
Be cliste, be cuinas
Above all be cute hooers, taking it straight to your highness
Hind parts shooting without looking blind darts
Killing for kindness, for Irishness
Your idea Irishness jaunty lilts, little leprechauns sinking six Guinness
Sick of sadness and sinning and the messing of the women.
I’m the mess behind the window, wondering whether a corpse’s inside
My corpulent insides were scooped into visceral urns
It’s just my carapace and rind
Sunshining brightly has me moving blindly, don’t take my shades off
Shaley shores along Killiney
Obelisk rising up behind me shouting masonic primacy
I’m disappointed like I lost the primaries by a point
I’ve always been kinda weird, held back in primary
What kind of idiot can’t complete senior infants first time
Time is ticking, move too chicken, smoke around me thickens
It’s like I’m the profligate father of a Dicken’s character, poor Oliver
Stand but can’t deliver, mailcoach coming and I’m out beachcombing
Someone else claims the million, I can’t even make the milk run
My prime is running out, fast moving sands hit timer’s bottom
My time is coming, tiocfaidh ar lá, dream dead at béal na bláth.
Dart is shocking, jolting chucking
Colour glas, my ticket top checked by the boss
Went across a bridge, lad from Dunshaughlin asked me if this goes to Greystones
This shaking would break bones if you were osteoporose, armature shaving prose
He has a nick above his lip, winces when he sips, amateur shaving
His name is on my lips, just the shape of it, has a séimhiú, it is Séamus
He’s got hair like Peter Mayhew, manwolf at the full moon translating
I answer him sooner rather than later, it skates along to where he’s going
Where the stone is grey as the grave gravel
I’m stoned enough to be babbling
But such happens when you’re travelling; at this hour the cars are empty
Lads from Bray have left empties, I smell the ghosts of joints sparked
In the dark, tube of recycled farts, talking whilst nothing saying Irish art
James Joyce broken mirror me arse.
Alchemisland 
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