The Pint of Full Fat. A poem by Billy O Hanluain

The walk to the shop
is like a crooked Céilí.
The Dance hall,
a narrow,
weed cracked
Do I move to the left
or dance to the right?
Is it the ladies’ choice
or mine?

All memory of the
moves erased.

Will I nod to
The Rakes of Mallow?
Cross the Bridge of Athlone
before scaling
The Walls of Limerick?
Make Haste to the Wedding
through The Gates of Derry?

Set sail on The Waves of Tory
and moor there in time for
The Bonfire Dance?
A Trip to the Cottage
wearing my
High Cauled Cap
all ready for
Lanigan’s Ball!

Have your choice of Sieges!
Ennis or Carrick!
Tis off to Bandon with me
now by way of Glecar!

I’ve danced them all
to dodge joggers
to flee the doggers
and avoid your one
on the phone!

I’ve jigged and
I’ve reeled though
not far afield
from the lip of my
front door to
the aisles and the
shop floor.
There and back
in ten
minutes flat
holding aloft
My pint of
Tesco Full Fat!

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