You Know The Worst: Your Wills Are

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?

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

September Has Come, It Is Hers Whose Vitality Leaps In The Autumn, Whose Nature Prefers Trees Without Leaves And A Fire In The Fireplace. So I Give Her This Month And The Next Though The Whole Of My Year Should Be Hers Who Has Rendered Already So Many Of Its Days Intolerable Or Perplexed But So Many More So Happy. Who Has Left A Scent On My Life, And Left My Walls Dancing Over And Over With Her Shadow Whose Hair Is Twined In All My Waterfalls And All Of London Littered With Remembered Kisses.

It's No Go The Picture Palace, It's No Go The Stadium, It's No Go The Country Cot With A Pot Of Pink Geraniums. It's No Go The Government Grants, It's No Go The Elections, Sit On Your Arse For Fifty Years And Hang Your Hat On A Pension.

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.