• every man in this town is named after a saint,
    from the misery walk to the point of fall;
    through the whistle wind and the boards skint bare;
    scratched knees, blunt fingers cawing on fiddles
    and leather shoes patched through nails and crust
    of the rain pattered rust, hanging hearts through mist.
    like urns of clockwork catching sand through cracks;
    the youth is but blind by the tick and the chime;
    spoilt puddles and blood pools surface eyes through
    windows, while mothers cry to open arms; not a
    son to hold down a limerick lane, limbering fools
    stumbling by crying adieu to your martyrs and
    the steins on your flag. light looms by lightning
    forks; never blind in the storm- with the thunder
    clap from the whiskey jar and the maudlin spoke
    melody. every ghost in this town is scratched
    upon the brickwork: every man sleeps nameless.