Home, A poem about Ireland

On a little island swept out at sea, we call it home to you and me.

Lush from sea swept rain filled cloud, wrapped up tight in a misty shroud.

Windy beaches, deserted and bleak, mountains and valleys where no voices speak.

The land of Beckett, Yeats and Wilde, filled with humour and love beguiled.

Joyce and Singh and Jonathan Swift, spoke of Lemuel cast off adrift.

And like the short men in his book, us Irish see things with a different look.

Small men with a small town mind, the parish, Mass, and their daily grind

But never a man can forget where he’s from, lest they bear the wrath of gossips hum

And if you dance to a different beat, you’ll soon be told with harsh conceit.

These people though, with dreary souls, will pass through life with all their goals

Wrapped up in what their close peers say, their one concern is looking good Sunday.

So they can lean and spit against the wall and laugh about others sorry downfall.

But he didn’t fit in so who the fuck cares, “He’s gone now, we’ll get back to our prayers?”

But I make this sound like a rural mind, but the cities too have their very own kind.

Statues with their heads cut off, cursing at the smell of beef stroganoff.

“Dem fookin darkies took me job” and as he speaks into his pint he’ll sob

Cause God forbid he gets off his ass and look for a job or sign up for a class.

He’ll stay in his PJ’s from dusk till dawn and moan about his plight then yawn

Sure it’s all the government they made this mess but never the problem he’ll address.

Emigration is all we’ve ever known, the Irish Bar when the plane has flown

To Guinness, rashers and Tayto packs and the same old gossip with the same old hacks

So the next time you sit, staring at a foreign map, complaining that the tea there’s crap.

Think about what your new home can boast, perhaps a stroll along its sunny coast

And marvel at the healthy folk, jogging on sand and sharing a joke

The lack of hoodies, scowling drunk, the empty cans and McDonalds junk.

They use the bins, they use their heads, your rubbish shouldn’t be in the flower beds.

And maybe when you fly home next time, you’ll notice what’s mentioned in this rhyme

And help your neighbour and not spread scorn, Romantic Irelands not yours to mourn

‘Cause we didn’t help, we stood and watched, as scumbags wrecked and politicians botched

But maybe now we’ll see once more, we brought this all upon our shore.

And unlike O’Leary in his grave, we might grow up and our country save.

Me though……….I’m fucking out of this dump.