Entombing loose talkers in a hidden sepulchre beneath Clondalkin
World’s lawless when you’re not a pauper
Looking Lock Stock in my Dad’s grey Crombie, shotty tucked
Like untied shoelace aglets
No corpse no toetag even if you drag it
I don’t even ask the sky anymore, human magnet
After ten Magners and fifteen fegs, confident I can manage it
I don’t need a manager, different league above all your cabbages
Way, way too savage
I don’t leave anything for salvage
Skin gone, eyes popped
Rest, crows can have it.
Alchemisland 
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