The Shame of Ireland
Anger written on a page
Ink ravenous with rage hacks and scratches
Till hearts, scythed and asunder,
deaden, stiffen, nerves shriven.
Imagine that! As a child to feel
and breathe such cancer
Tear your insides inside out,
Bone to bat, bat to back and back again.
A grotesque dancer
On a stage where you have no part
except to simply suffer and wait
In hope that all this woe will soon abate
And curtain falls and violence exasperate.
Leaving me alone but lonely
- alive but dead inside - to wait
....and wait for scar blackened heart to revive
And adult squirmers to squirm in hate
To feel what I had felt
Black-strap leather of a belt
Brass-cankered bat across their bones
Meeting the meaning of madness in their moans
And exult at their discomfort
Stare in my face - my face of mirth
Carved and coloured from their owed-dirt
Fashion now their very fruitful hurt
But for what is this hurt worth
If payment is revengeful spurt
And anger boils - still boils inside
My loves and hopes away.... They died.
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