Let Them Not Make Me A Stone

A Fortress Against Ideas And Against The Shuddering Insidious Shock Of The Theory-vendors The Little Sardine Men Crammed In A Monster Toy Who Tilt Their Aggregate Beast Against Our Crumbling Troy.

Blind Wantons Like The Gulls Who Scream And Rip The Edge Off Any Ideal Or Dream.

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

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?

You Know The Worst: Your Wills Are Fickle, Your Values Blurred, Your Hearts Impure And Your Past Life A Ruined Church-- But Let Your Poison Be Your Cure.