To see my face in Ireland’s Own, will I make Rolling Stone?
If the media won’t come to me must I come to thee?
Wait and see.
A wealthy patron would suit me well, not a penniless beggar, what the Hell?
I am my patron, who my fan, maybe you, merely a man.
Oul’ wans and ould lads like my stuff, my edges may be rather rough.
We all get old, time passes by, another year, don’t make me cry.
So then my face is not unknown.
Throw this raggy dog a bone.
1st January, 2017