Northern Discomfort

Another round of Guinness to ensure the banter’s slick,

Black and tan battling together in a barrel of stout.

Come out and fight me like a man but try to make it quick,

Don't have much more time left until the landlord kicks us out.

Everyone back to my gaff when the shebeen shuts its door,

Fireside blather and ballads and a bed on every floor.

Give us another round there while the craic is flowing thick.

Heap the turf sods higher to blaze away the hidden doubt

Inside every hearty cackle from every wistful Mick

Jaunty as a wartime poet and drunken as a lout.

Keep the clichés coming as we scribble fresh Irish lore,

Leprechaun hats floating in the waters of life galore.

Men guzzle down their sorrow until saucer-eyed and sick,

Needling the fiddle player to give the old anthem clout.

Overhanging bellies and spines bent as shillelagh sticks,

Puffing Benson by the packet and drinking off a drought.

Quenching the thirst of history and calling out for more,

Reaching for a refill until booze sweats from every pore.

Such was the northern feting of that patron saint Patrick,

Tarnished by the rusty hue of liver disease and gout.

Under tattered tricolours candles fizzle to the wick,

Valiant are the heroes who quaff thirstily as trout.

Where once the clarion sounded a soul-affirming roar,

Xenophobic proclamations spat by the barroom bore

Yield rousing lamentations from all those who still adore

Zombie hopes of nation clad in the sash my father wore.