Why Do We Like Being Irish? Partly

I Am Not Yet Born; Forgive Me For The Sins That In Me The World Shall Commit, My Words When They Speak Me, My Thoughts When They Think Me, My Treason Engendered By Traitors Beyound Me, My Life When They Murder By Means Of My Hands, My Death When They Live Me.

And I Envy The Intransigence Of My Own Countrymen Who Shoot To Kill And Never See The Victim's Face Become Their Own Or Find His Motive Sabotage Their Motives.

I Am Not Yet Born; O Fill Me With Strength Against Those Who Would Freeze My Humanity.

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

Better Authentic Mammon Than A Bogus God.