Black ’16.

by Cormac Lally

The dog’s wet nose awakens me
His business needs attending
I open doors to let him out
Where trees the winds are bending
The static hiss of wireless
Miscellany of Sunday
Osmosis of that poetry
They might read mine out one day.
It’s quiet oh so quiet
As my tribe in silence slumbers
I care not now for bills or woes
Discrepancies of numbers
This half light morning time is mine
This half made fool of man
I stick the kettle on to boil
And fry black pudding on the pan.
One hundred years have almost passed
Since Plunkett, Ceantt, and Pearse
Sent out the call of freedom
But, fell mostly on deaf ears
Easter Sunday morning broadcast
Spoke of treacheries of man
When Ireland cursed those heroes
And fried black pudding on the pan.
The noble etiquette of failure
Consumed and then devoured
As patriots disarmed and marched
With spit and bile were showered
Young children killed in crossfire
As casual teas were poured
And England stood victorious
Put the rebels to the sword.
The papers and the radio
Muraled morals of its sham
But multitudes muttered darkly
And fried black pudding on the pan.
The Full Irish Independence war
Convulsed to conflict civil
As shadows crept across these shores
Malevolent and evil
Bullets then gave way to bombs
And bombs to politicians.
Divided homes and no go zones
And saw our land partitioned
Twenty sixteen will come and go
Hurrahed with hooleys, pints and cans
We’ll be revolting with hangovers
And fry black pudding on the pan.