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Poetry in Motion  

Poetry News
Limerick -

Dublin Poetry
Galway Poetry
Errigal Writers, Letterkenny
The North Beach Nights series of Poetry Slams, Galway
Java’s Coffee House, Galway
Scribblers’s Café & Wine Bar, Galway
POET'S PLATFORM AT Tigh Filí Arts Centre Mac Curtain Street, Cork
Other poetry on the web: http://groups.msn.com/THEPOETRYROOM                                                                           The Poetry Kit - web listings

Published poetry section

Poetry Events
To submit items for this page mail them to:

All Ireland Live Poetry Championships
The second All Ireland Live Poetry Championships will occur in the White House pub, Limerick on Wednesday, 12th November.
Next years is scheduled to happen in either Connacht or Leinster, in what is hoped will become a revolving and democratic annual jamboree celebrating the noble bardic art of filidecht.

Live poetry in Ireland is thriving, and to prove the point the number of venues around the country that hold regular poetry event is steadily growing, even Poetry Ireland recently inaugurated an open-mic event in Damer Hall in Dublin. From Cork to Belfast and all points in between live poetry is taken the country by storm. In Galway Over The Edge instigated by Kevin Higgins: Dominic Taylor and Barney Sheehan who run the White House Poets weekly Wednesday in Limerick, Pamela Brown, Jenni Doherty and Abby Oliveira who perform singularly and as The Poetry Chicks -- all committed facilitators of live poetry events in Derry - Mark Madden of the Creative Writers Network in Belfast, Gordon Hewitt and Chelley McLear also in Ulster, the Monday night ÓBhéal in Cork which Paul Casey initiated last year -- Mike Igoe and his three fellow Cavan cohorts from the fortnightly Naked Lunch series, Orla Martin in the Winding Stair Bookshop and the poets behind Seven Towers monthly poetrynight in Cassidy's - all in Dublin -- are individuals and organizations dedicated to making the native Irish art of poetry, live, accessible and inclusive to anyone on the island wishing to partake of it.

After the success of the very first regional heats which lead to the inaugural All Ireland Live Poetry Championships in Belfast last year, won by Liverpudlian native and long time Galway resident Brendan Murphy - who went on to the BBC Radio Four Poetry Slam in London - many of those named above, hooked up to create an informal body of poet/organisers, with the intention of making it easier than ever before for those wishing to discover and attend places in which to experience a reading, recite themselves, or even tour around an all island circuit, which was birthed over a couple of pints in the Electric Mouse pub, on the penultimate Saturday evening of the In Sight of Raftery Festival in Kiltimagh,Mayo.

At this festival in the home place of the great blindpoet-musician from whom it is named, a quadruplet body of representatives from the four provinces, met collectively face to face for the first time and sealed an informal set-up in which the promotion of live poetry took centre stage.

And the primary tool effecting this coalescing of creative and organisational talent into an all island whole, was the internet, which has revolutionised in a few short years, how people all over the world communicate, acting as an immediate postal service, dissemination board, shop window for recordings of live events, ad-space, classroom and calling card for anyone with the wit, will and ability to click their way into a virtual realm where physical borders and barriers do not exist and the free exchange of what's inside our head and hearts is happening in a way unpredictable during the lifetimes of our great grandparents, only three generations ago.

Further info: Desmond Swords

http://www.myspace.com/dublinpoet - latest Dublin poets streamed recordings
http://irishpoetry.blogspot.com/ - read the latest blather.


Limerick Poetry Soundings
If you are the type of person who snatches time to write poems, enjoys playing with the sound and feel of words and listening to other poets reading, then perhaps you might be interested in participating in a series of poetry evenings entitled ‘Soundings’ being hosted by Limerick County Council.

he third poetry evening in the series ‘SOUNDINGS’ takes place this Thursday evening November 13th in Newcastle West Library.

‘SOUNDINGS’ is an evening of poetry, musings and stories’ says librarian Aileen Dillane. ‘If you are the type of person who enjoys hearing poetry read or are writing your own poetry, then this series which has commenced under the county’s poet in residence Eileen Sheehan is bound to interest you. We are really pleased to have Mary Kennelly as our guest poet for this SOUNDINGS evening. Many people will be familiar with Mary’s first lovely collection ‘Sunny Spells, Scattered Showers’ and her second collection is due out from Salmon Press in the New Year.”

 ‘The evening also features an ‘open mic’ session’, says Arts Officer Joan Mac Kernan, ‘and this is open to anyone who would like to read their own work. To date we have been delighted with the uptake and impressed with the number of people who are quietly writing away. And of course reading one’s work aloud to an interested audience whets the creative juices.”

 SOUNDINGS, an evening of magic woven around the sound and meaning of words commences at 8.00 pm and all are welcome.

Full details on the poet in residence programme and the SOUNDINGS evenings are available from the County Arts Office at telephone 496498/496300.


DUBLIN POETRY
Dublin Poetry Revival
VENUE: The Left Bank (behind the Oliver St John Gogarty's Bar,Fleet St;)
DATE: Every Tuesday night
TIME: 7.30p.m. ‘til 10.30p.m. Open Mic for everyone so come along!! For more info contact Gerry Mc Namara at write_recite@hotmail.com


CORK
Cork Poetry

POET'S PLATFORM AT Tigh Filí Arts Centre Mac Curtain Street, Cork
no details


Poetry Ireland
120 St Stephen's Green, Dublin 2


Errigal Writers
OPEN MIKE POETRY VENUE
EVERY TUESDAY @ 8pm : Admission FREE
Glen of Aherlow, 29 Emmet Road Kilmainham
Featuring, special guests, open mike, recordings, & video's
Buses, 78A, 51A, 51B & 51C stop at the door (from Aston Quay). Also the Red Line Tram stops nearby at Suir Rd. Bridge.
Read your work, catch up on the gossip and hear what's going down!

 

 

 

Waterford Poetry
no listing


Galway Poetry

OVER THE EDGE NEW WRITER OF THE YEAR
Wes Lee from Wellington, New Zealand is the 2008 Over The Edge New Writer of The Year. Her story, Tigers, has been chosen as the winner by competition judge, Celeste Augé. Tigers will appear in the January-March issue of Galway Arts Centre's online literary quarterly, West 47. The runner up is Hans-Joachim (Hajo) Quade of Galway for his poems High Flyer, Winkles & Time Warp, while another Galway-based writer, Alan McMonagle, took third place with his story The Fight.
About Wes Lee
-----------------------------------------------------------

Leading poet-critic John Goodby for November Over The Edge
The November Over The Edge: Open Reading will take place in Galway City Library, St. Augustine Street, Galway on Thursday, November 20th, 6.30-8pm. The Featured Readers are Elizabeth Power, Gordon Hewitt & John Goodby.

Elizabeth Power was born in East Cork but now calls Galway home. She completed an MA in Writing at NUIG in 2007. Her poetry has appeared in a wide variety of magazines, including Crannóg, Force 10 and Tribes ‘n Vibes. Elizabeth’s work also featured in the anthology Writers Seeking Lovers. Currently she works as a librarian and is writing a novel about a time travelling witch.

Gordon Hewitt initiated the Belfast Poets Touring Group, a group of performance poets who toured Ireland, the US, New Zealand and Australia in 2006 & 2007. The group, now known as Scream Blue Murmur, performed recently in Kuala Lumpur, Singapore, and at the Electric Picnic. Gordon is active in di-Verse (Poets against Racism) which oversees the annual Love Poetry Hate Racism event which is held in over 60 cities worldwide each April. Gordon’s style is a unique blend of spoken word, performance poetry, song and chant.

John Goodby is a poet and translator who lectures at the University of Swansea. His poetry has been described by Sean O'Brien as ‘bold and sensuous ... it reads like a chowder of names laced with methedrine ... at once lush and abrasive.’ John Goodby has translated Heine's Germany: A Winter’s Tale (2005), the contemporary Algerian poet Soleiman Adel Guemar, and is currently translating the work of Pier Paolo Pasolini. Among his latest publications are the first anthology of translations of Irish women poets into Spanish, No Soy Tu Musa and uncaged sea (2008), a cut-up version of the Collected Poems of Dylan Thomas. He is the author of the influential Irish Poetry Since 1950: From Stillness into History (Manchester University Press) and founder of Wales’s only poetry performance group, Boiled String.

As usual there will be an open-mic when the Featured Readers have finished. This is open to anyone who has a poem or story to share. New readers are always especially welcome. For further details phone 087-6431748.

Over The Edge acknowledges the financial support of Galway City Council and The Arts Council http://overtheedgeliteraryevents.blogspot.com/

  ----------------------------------------------------------------

Welcome to the Obama era!  
North Beach Poetry Nights presents
on Monday November 10th at 9 pm
at New Venue: The Crane Bar, Sea Road
Guest Poet Tim Wells (East London)
Admission 5 Euro.

Londoner Tim Wells is a performance poet and author of three books, including his latest collection, 'Boys Night Out in the Afternoon'  (Donut Press), which was short-listed for the Forward Prize. He has toured the US and has worked as a guest poet on Radio London and  supported The Libertines with his 'Cockney Hell' poetry show. A  regular contributor to the Illustrated Ape and Nude magazines, he  is also the long-time editor of Rising, an independent poetry  magazine.

        Also:

The Last North Beach Poetry Nights' 2 Round Slam of 2008 before the Grand Slam on December 15th!

The winner of this month's Slam goes forward to the 2008 North Beach Poetry Nights' Grand Slam on December 15th.

The prize for the Grand Slam winner is publication of a collection of her/his work. 

("Inheritance" debut collection by last year's winner Miceál Kearney available in Charlie Byrne's bookshop and from www.doirepress.com)

And featuring
The Reverend Reynolds with his irreverent songs

North Beach Poetry Nights gratefully acknowledges the support
of the Arts Council and Galway City Council Arts Office.
 
 ----------------------------------------------------------

Readings in Siobhan Mc Kenna Theatre at NUI Galway:

No details

Talks/ Workshops on Civic Space

----------------------------------------------------

NEW KINVARA POETRY NIGHT
9.00pm, 2nd Monday Every Month
GREEN’S BAR, KINVARA

Bring a poem (or two):
Poems you have written;
or poems you love;
or just come to listen

First session 9.00pm Monday 10th November 2008

EVERYONE WELCOME


Scribbler’s Cafe and Wine Bar
Middle Street, Galway
See North Beach Nights (this page)

Java’s Coffee House, Abbeygate Steet
The Fiction Clinic with Susan Millar DuMars.
Tuesday
Fee: 8 Euro per session (6 Euro concession) for details 087-9428540

no details


WESTERN WRITERS’ CENTRE - IONAD SCRÁDBHNEOIRÁ CHAITLÁN MAUDE
34 Nuns Island, GALWAY
Western Writers' Centre Plans Major Autumn Literary Event
www.thepoetrymill.blogspot.com and www.thestorybarn.blogspot.com
Submissions to writersgalway@eircom.net or sylfredcar@iolfree.ie

Galway Writers Centre

 

POEMS

Go to section dedicated to the memory of those shot at dawn during World War I

 

Without a doubt
A Limerick’s about
To burst from my soul and go Yonder.
Now if any can tell me
What my Limerick will be
tis sure I will no longer ponder

u

There once was a pigeon with vertigo
Who always approached a long drop slow
And thought what a bind to be in
For a pigeon it must be a sin
To be frightened to fly anywhere that you go


THE UNICORN
Awake he sleeps a dreaming
as the rains fall quick and slow
his thoughts they fly a speeding
from whence he cannot know

The moment lasts forever
yet though lingering still is gone
a distant echo in the forest
a song from way beyond

To stir the breeze with gentle fingers
and sing forever would be sweet
to slide toward the rainbow's end
a reckoning to meet

'Tis there all pastures wander
thru the everlasting storm
to that place where pots of gold
are souls entwined in shapeless form

<H 29/11/01

 

 

THE SPUNKY MAN POEM
I knew a spunky man
Who slept in a spunky bed
Everything was spunky
Including everything he said
There was spunk all over the ceiling
There was spunk all over the floor
and every time he went and came
there was spunk a little more

I knew a spunky man
Who lived in a spunky house
There was spunk between the rafters
and spunk on the resident mouse
There was spunk upon the balcony
And spunk all down the stairs
You never would see such a spunky house
If you travelled the world everywheres

I knew a spunky man
who longed for a spunky wife
to take care of all the spunk
that was cluttering up his life
There was spunk inside his bankbook
There was spunk just everywhere
The only place there was no spunk
was in Mrs Robinson’s chair

Mrs Robinson was
A friend of the spunky man
She didn't seem to mind at all
she even bought him a spunking can
But there were certain conditions
Mrs Robinson set
and one of them said there'd be no spunk
on the chair in which she sat

Yes I knew a spunky man
who lived a spunky life
perhaps by now he's found himself
a lovely spunking wife
But the house in which he lives
is a terrible site to see
its been leaking spunk from the windows
since 1953

Oh there was a spunky man
the spunkiest of all
who said spunk this
then said spunk that
then said hell well spunk 'em all
The last I knew he was still
spunking on his way
heading down the spunky road
to another spunking day
<H


Longing
Lay my head in your lap my love
So that I may know your longing
Let my lips speak silent whispers
To caress your ceaseless wanting
As your body lies a trembling

Lay your head in my lap my love
So that you may know my longing
Let your lips speak silent whispers
To caress my ceaseless wanting
As my body lies a trembling

Lay your hand in my hand my love
Let my fingers feel your passion
Walk a while besides me
As though somehow it still is in fashion

Lay my hand in your hand my love
Let your fingers feel my passion
I'll walk a while besides you
As though somehow it still is in fashion
<H 2007


Defence
I stand embattled amid the throng of j’ai accuse
Pen drawn and sharpened ’gainst bullet and sword
Unflinching they do not hesitate to use
Their weapons against me and the word
In the name of justice and of what is right
The legions gather preparing to fight

In a still place of silence the albatross soars
Fearless and bold as his wings wide unfold
The clamouring hordes so far below
are but memories from long long ago

A blanket of cloud eclipses the sun
Divorced from the light the free bird is one
Unfettered, released, the free skies to road
A star in the darkness in a world that is home

They should and they holler, j’ai accuse j’ai accuse
Answers too clear they twist to confuse
I stand embattled ’gainst the throng yet I muse
On differences ’tween right and wrong they abuse
Is dream an illusion or could it be real
j’ai accuse, j’ai accuse, and I lodge my final appeal
<H

UNTITLED
Lonely people line the street
the fanfare of the common man
a whistle blows
a church bell tolls
a vessel leaves the harbour
salvation's prayer
a moment's glory
a smiling face remembered
a reaching hand
a dream denied
the pages of life's story
<H

 

Old Penis Poem
My nookie days are over
My pilot light is out
What used to be my sex appeal
Is now my water spout.

Time was when, on its own accord
From my trousers it would spring
But now I've got a full-time job
To find the blasted thing.

It used to be embarrassing
The way it would behave
For every single morning
It would stand and watch me shave.

Now as old age approaches
It sure gives me the blues
To see it hang its little head
And watch me tie my shoes.
anon

Instant
The poems of life
a horse in a breeze
an honest wife
the lies that deceive
flesh on the bone
yet nothing to chance
companions alone
in the looking glass
where the face of illusion
stands proud and tall
lies only deliver
truth to us all
<H

g

BARFLY
I am just a fly in a bar
Nobody knows me and
I don't know who you are

I land on hanging clothing
I examine covered food
I believe my life has meaning
even though you think me crude

Yes I am just a fly in a bar
my life is over before it gets far
I watch the correlation
of father, mother, daughter, son
though you may swat me down
who knows who may have won

I am just a fly in a bar
you might see me someplace near or far
and if you do then this I ask of you
see my wings of gossamer
see my thoughts of silken thread
see my vision as I see you
and stop a while to ponder
this world in which we live
for just like you, I too
have something to give

I am just a fly in a bar
my friends are scattered wide and far
this karmic burden
I carry on my frame
for I am a fly in a bar
that's the nature of my game
<h 9.6.02

 

 

SUMMER
Summer is like
a Whore
as she raids
herself from the higher
God, but who's to say
she wades
herself through
the human race
M.Michelle 3-1-02

WINTER
As she rides
the storm she
fades out

You see her
coming as
she yearns her
way forward
for a month or two

that's why she
begins at
the end of each year

M.Michelle 3-1-02

 

 

Hyperion's song of destiny
You stride up there in the light
on soft ground, blessed spirits!
Luminous divine breezes
touch you gently,
as the fingers of a woman player
touch holy strings

Freed of all fate, as the sleeping
infant, breathe those in heaven:
chastely preserved
in a modest bud,
their spirit
blossoms eternally;
and their blessed eyes
look out in peaceful, perpetual clearness.

But to us has been allotted
to rest at no abode;
vanish and fall
will a suffering mankind
blindly from one
hour unto the next,
be cast like the water
from cliff unto cliff,
through the years, down into the uncertain.
Friedrich Hölderlin

 

 

FAMILY
Family is family it is said
but mine is not
sometimes I swear
we is the worst o' the lot



MY LOVE
She came
She went
She came, she went
She came
She went
my love

<H 1-10-2001


THE BOSTON STRANGER—an English recollection
From Donkey Town to Dummer
through the Fairleigh Wallop hay
From Alfred's Tower to Croydon Hill all along the Brendon Way
I wandered as a pilgrim bent on feckled mare
never knowing what I'd find
whensoever I got there

I took a turn at Battery Hill bound for the Freedom Trail
to find myself a peddling head on agin a gale
I set myself one mighty fight
to task that vicious storm
knowing I would some day find my way back home.

It was then and there I smelt it like a vat of rhubarb wine
that old familiar Holborn air where me granddad wasn't born
or was it no me granddaughter, well I'm really nay so sure
it must have been but one, but it might have been t'other
cos I duzna have no sister and I's only got one bruvver.

The doctor said he couldn't help
I had a solid head
no matter what he pumped at it
’twould cure nowt all he said
So I took to eating sawdust pie every Saturday afternoon
with a kind of hopelessness, every bite the taste of doom
that stretched just like the avalanche of a tidal wave at sea
oh gawd look out now christ — here it come again
I woke at Effingham Junction and missed the last damned train

The cleaning woman looked at me at a little after five
my ankles in the urinal where I smelled more dead than live
I wouldn't have been as stinking if only the flushing would stop
but then she started swabbing me with her evil smelling mop.

And would you believe it was Sunday, the worst bloody day of all
no trains leave from Effingham Junction and its miles to any watering hole
there's a train that leaves on Monday, but it goes the other way
and the next one's not till the Monday next, and when it comes in it don't go away.

Really there's nothing for it, the cure is so fatal a dose
that the very thing that's curing simply prefers to give up the ghost
and return again to Donkey Town and the Fairleigh Wallop hay
to take up residence on White Sheet Hill and be mistaken every day
for the memory of somebody who long ago once passed on close by there
upon the gentle dappled back of a sprightly feckled mare

<H 10-11-2001


POEM 831
A passing smile
Wide as the memory
Of a byegone mile
Irreparable damage in the constant
While epochs pass
my love dreams irrecoverable
dreams of the lonesome whippoorwills

So where do I go
And what do you want
Are we not just Eternity
infinite scree
A ripple in a fountain
Mist on the mountain
Calling to you in the jewel of morn's dew

So where is this wonder
A teardrop and leaf
And where the boundary
to love become grief

The valley of laughter
the comedy of pain
Insecurity's fusion
of pleasure to gain
And mirrors of belief
reflect the deceit
but the window is silent
Always

<H 1/1/01


THE REVISED
The face of anticipation
The surgeon's knife
The crowded isolation
The hungry wife
The dream of riches
The ignorant elite
This window of witches
This civilised street

The sidelong glance
The hand that would paint
The feet that would dance
The eyes of a saint
The unhappy smile
The forgiving frown
This familiar style
This inescapable gown

The lonely saxophone
The desert awash
The wonder of home
The cold winter frost
The swell of the tide
The warmth of the sun
This pain we abide
This is all but one

<H 17/7/01


The Man With The Wart On His Glans
The Man With The Wart On His Glans
could think of nothing to say or do
or write
The Man With The Wart On His Glans
was a lonely man
with seven warted daughters
and one completely wartless wife.

The Man With The Wart On His Glans
hated having a shower and hated baths more
because warts float.

The Man With The Wart On His Glans
hated his best friend who one day
told how he had a wart on his hand
until he bit it off.

The Man With The Wart On His Glans
had to get a divorce because
he could not wear a condom.

The Man With The Wart On His Glans
spent his time poring over mirrors
because
he was
The Man With The Wart On His Glans

Oh The Man With The Wart On His Glans
had no friends
except his English hedgehog
because the English hedgehog liked
The Man With The Wart On His Glans

The Man With The Wart On His Glans
<H

 

 

Some poetry from Limerick poets

COME NEAR
by James Anthony Kelly

Come near me now
breathing lonely to my breast
when light softly vanishes on the bow
or on the rims of a nest

Come near me now
oh my weak weeping child.
Let us end this sensitive row
for we are no longer so wild

Come near me now
for life is sad
searching the colours of the rainbow
and wasted dreams we had

Come near me now
for the poet feels too much
come near me now
with your gentle touch

 

FREE LOVE
by James Anthony Kelly

I believe in Free Love
I could never afford it.

 

 

Louse Woodward
Maybe, Maybe Not
by Tom McNamara, 2001
Beyond a Doubt was it
No I Guess Not
Jury Deliberating
Mind To Make Up What
Guilty Not Maybe
Not Guilty At All
And Then Why Convioct Her
Is The Worldly Bawl

Release Now Release Her
Let Her Go Free
Beyond A Doubt No Sir
She Is You See
Not So Or Maybe
Did Maybe Not
And For That Reason
Set Her Free "Off"

Positive Be Positive
Don't Grope In The Dark
Eveidence Is Evidence
Not Hearsay Lark
What She Did Telling
I Did Not Do
What I Am Sentenced For
Do You Know For Sure?

Justice Is Justice
When It Is So
Done In This Case
Looks More And More
Like A Mixed Conviction
Can't Make Up Their Minds
And Doubt As In Doubting
Convictions In The Blind

 

HORNUCOPIA ?
The Extended Luimneach Version

By
Jangle Laureate

Changes there must be
I’m sure you’ll agree
to laws letting car alarms sound in the city.
‘Coz if they don’t set ‘em right
they disturb someone’s night
and intrude on the thoughts of the witty.

Ne’er mind the gas it might be green but it’s gas
and okay might somehow fit in here
If car alarms had been then Ilyiad would never
and I know that sounds strange but it’s strange sounds that matter
to a crazed car alarm city dweller.

You know we just might if we put up a fight
get a fine brought in for the offender.
  500 I am sure would silence the cur
and get car alarms fitted far better.
But then where would we be
well asleep, yes well maybe
in dreams of a car alarm free perfect city.

Sometimes I declare
That without them then there
Would be no one awake with this ditty.
If Karma was cool and not such a fool
And those who were wrong were right all along
Then those who weren’t right might wrong better.
But Karma sneaks in and you know when its been
‘Coz you end up a car alarm hater.

Outside in the street and stuck there all week
Is a bloody great big expensive Mercedes.
It shrieks day and night
And You’d think someone might come along and make it feel better.
But no one appears and I’m a little afeared
I’ll turn into an alarmed car destroyer.

So I’m sure you’ll agree Changes there must be
to the laws that let car alarms sound in the city.
When they don’t set ‘em right
they disturb someone’s night
and intrude on the thoughts of the witty.


 
 

Since the items below were published, the UK Government has announced its intention to grant pardons
to all UK soldiers shot by firing squad as traitors during World War One.
Related: http://www.shotatdawn.org.uk/&e=9797
            http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/4798025.stm

Final Dawn

They say I ran away.
Just like the day you told me
Not to leave our garden.
Do you remember Mother?

They captured me;
I was court-martialled.
You captured me;
All cross you were.
Smacked my legs, so hard,
Then hugged me, so close.
Do you remember Mother?

I stand in my prison, staring,
Just staring at the wooden post.
The one they'll tie me to.
You shut me in my room,
I stared out then too,
Crying, watching kids out playing.
Do you remember Mother?

I remember it all.
I remember you coming for me,
With milk and biscuits.
Now I hear them coming.
Please,
Hug me again, Mother.


© Diane Wilson

You call me a coward

You call me a coward
You who sit in judgment here
That's easy for you to say
When no enemy shells fall near.
You call me a coward
You who want an example made
You say I must have run
And thrown away my gun
You say I must have fled
For all save I were dead.

My version of events
You reject out of hand
You say it’s good I survived
The hells of no man’s land
For it means I lived to die again
In front of true and trusting men
Who've swallowed all your lies
And would just as soon
Shoot one of their own
Than swat at bothersome flies.

It is dawn behind the battle lines
The daylight’s blossoming hour
And many of your own you murder
So no cowardice here may flower
You need to teach a lesson
To soldiers one and all
They’re fighting for King and Country
But their fate lies in your hands
If they fail to fall in battle
They’ll be shot against a wall

© George Macintyre

 
 

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