Land of my birth what are you worth?
In pounds shillings and pence, have sense.
Foreigners choose to come here to live, why?
Is it a good place to die?
If you come looking for logic you came to the wrong place.
We are from another planet, outer space.
We are great at complaining, that’s a complaint.
Am I a foreigner, I ain’t.
Saint Patrick was a foreign saint.
Pubs used to be expensive, now you couldn’t give them away.
Are drink driving laws here to stay?
If young people ran things would everything be better or are they too busy boozing, or choosing?
Why doesn’t someone do something, who, me?
Wait and see.
If talking was a cure we’d all be well.
Make your own Heaven or Hell.
I’m stuck here anyway, I’m lazy.
Land of the crazy.
When someone says jump do you ask how high?
You are not I.
I did not choose my place of birth, I had no choice.
Land of James Joyce.
Why do Irish people emigrate?
Can’t they stand each other or at least tolerate?
The wind is so blowy I can’t write my poem, it turns over the page.
Yet I don’t feel rage.
Nothing’s ever perfect here.
I take solace in beer.
I drink therefore I am.
Do you want bread with your jam?
Shaw the Irish writer said a patriot is a person who thinks a country is the best in the world because he was born in it, funny but true.
I’ve met the type, have you?
They bore me to death, things are good because they’re good, not because of where they’re from.
There are good things about Ireland, don’t get me wrong.
Music, horses, pubs, talk, scenery to name a few or three.
Least of all me.
Can we agree?
I should have got a haircut today but that will have to wait ‘til Monday now.
Some say poets should have long hair anyhow.
En passant means in passing in French, so I speak.
When will I get through to you, the middle of next week?
Read between the lines, not all the time.
Talking too much is an Irish crime.
The Irish romanticise their history, don’t you?
I’ve got news for you, romance is not true.
7th July, 2018