Alchemisland

These days there are no mates,

No Monday to Friday happy days,

Endless rates, endless rage

Drained energy sluiced away

Like so much rain.

They make you waste it.

Can you taste pain

Once your tongue is bitter-trained?

You’re shown who to blame:

Not vacuous cunts with private planes,

Not them with opulent displays,

But those with nothing;

Those displaced.

Against the rich, you never paraded; at the protests, you never came;

We never saw your face and it wasn’t because you wore a bally.

Attacking migrants, midnight alleys,

“Ireland’s full, send back the galleys!”

Fuck you cunts, the gall, you recall fuck all 

Your hardknuckle ancestors, with hardly a cúpla focal, reaching far-off soil

Striking out for foreign shores, when Éire was raped by Albionic whores.