It's No Go The Merry-go-round,

A City Built Upon Mud; A Culture Built Upon Profit; Free Speech Nipped In The Bud, The Minority Always Guilty. Why Should I Want To Go Back To You, Ireland, My Ireland?

There Seeps From Heavily Jowled Or Hawk-like Foreign Faces The Guttural Sorrow Of The Refugees.

World Is Suddener Than We Fancy It.

Let Them Not Make Me A Stone And Let Them Not Spill Me, Otherwise Kill Me.

I Am Not Yet Born; O Hear Me. Let Not The Bloodsucking Bat Or The Rat Or The Stoat Or The Club-footed Ghoul Come Near Me.