World Is Crazier And More Of It

I Was The Rector's Son, Born To The Anglican Order, Banned For Ever From The Candles Of The Irish Poor; The Chichesters Knelt In Marble At The End Of A Transept With Ruffs About Their Necks, Their Portion Sure.

Down The Road Someone Is Practicing Scales, The Notes Like Little Fishes Vanish With A Wink Of Tails

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.

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?

I Am Not Yet Born; O Fill Me With Strength Against Those Who Would Freeze My Humanity, Would Dragoon Me Into A Lethal Automaton Would Make Me A Cog In A Machine, A Thing With One Face, A Thing