Here in my tent,
at least I can sleep
and snore, and fart,
and cough without some fucker
telling me to shut up.
No queue for the loo, waiting
on the lines to be snorted,
the bags to be banged,
the crack to be smoked.
Here I can dream of the old life,
the factory floor, Marie my wife,
before the cancer ate at her liver
like a wolf would a rabbit,
indiscriminate and savage.
I can dream
of her peroxide blonde hair,
emerald eyes, always knew
when I lied about drinks
with the boys,
was that cigarette smoke
she could smell on my clothes?
Although she wouldn’t approve,
I’ll light up this rollie,
have a sup from the naggin of Powers,
it stops the shivering,
and now smoke covers the stench
of my clothes.
So here’s a toast
to Massey’s funeral home,
and their four grand headstone,
to the rent officer, the loan sharks,
the abandoned factory, the dole,
and the Taoiseach,
the fellas in the masks
who came in the morning,
took me out of my home,
and binned me with the rubbish.
Here’s to yizzer health,
hope it’s as good as my own:
A pneumatic cough,
two busted knees,
thin as sliced ham,
my complexion is green,
my beards full of wildlife,
my eyes barely see
feet swollen and blistered,
a rash that itches and bleeds,
may yiz be blest just like me,
may your houses be plagued
by the rules that yuh set,
by the gamble yiz took,
by yer money well spent.
I’ll soon see yuh Marie,
by the end of this year,
I can feel it in my waters.
Living in a one man tent,
nobody can fuck me out ,
all they can do is come collect
when I keel over or freeze,
and the birds can eat out my eyes,
and the rats can chew on my tongue,
and the Devil and his minions be done.