Old Ireland is dead, long live Ireland.

Death and hate and envy are vanquished but live on.

As Shakespeare might say, begone, begone!

Oh little minds and great ones, this too must pass.

Meanwhile, cows eat green grass.

We may be maudlin, self pitying, poor mouthing now, always.

Now and then we drink to happy days.

We don’t forget, we remember, the past is ever present, now and then.

But I don’t care, I love you until when.

Oh music, song, great talking, hear my word.

Must the sublime be mixed with the absurd?

Tich Ennis

16th April, 2016