This island, this septic island

Adrift in a sea of indifference

Towed along by other entities

Once fearful of its wash

Hear the battle-cry from every tower block,

Every street corner every public bar,

Every private club

It is the cry of the wastrel, the cry of the vagabond

The thief in the night, the rapist, the pick-pocket

The whore,

The low cur, the high roller, the insider,

The asset-stripper, the banker and the bounty-hunter


Ask not what I can do for my country

But what my country can do for me


You have fouled this planet with your culture

Profaned us all with your arrogance

You value dogs more highly than children

And leave old soldiers to freeze in empty rooms;

Single mothers flaunt their skin-tight jeans

And ‘gentlemen’ still peer down their long noses

Where the only good Irishman is a stupid one

Or a dead one

And the only good Black man an unemployed one

Or a pimp


Wouldn’t you rather be a pig?

This poem is taken from, 67- a collection of 71 poems, now available @  http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/






Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s