I won’t march in your drunken green parades,
nor think of your name when I spy clover;
I’m tired of these cruel lies and the charades –
it won’t be my eyes your wool pulls over.
For I am of the breed of snakes you fought
and drove from Erin’s shores in ignorance,
when with a blessing of my blood you brought
your cursed words of sin to my Beltane dance.
You stole my history, my country’s soul,
and yet, your patriarchal leaders boast
that somehow you redeemed our sacred isle.
May your eyes be lain with live, burning coal;
in the Hell you created may you roast.
I shall think of that scene in March, and smile.
07 MAR 2003
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