After a frittered wedge for a staked sobreandando,
a tot in The Albion,
and the uneasy key of our lopsided Viggiani shushing a
swung door,
the blurred insignia of allegiance
has the volume of its colour turned up
through the initially verecund miasma of Glenfiddich.
Give me your hand…
the litmus for coming histrionics,
for waking the children,
whose veneration goes as far
as the imperishable drum keeping time in a Fenian
pocket.
The window is agape at the stentorian historian,
reminding the oxygen of his countrymen.
If there’s trouble at mill,
there will be still.
There were roses…
the breakneck bolt from the petrol station
and the lupine tone of his tobacco soprano
make the gesture an askance semaphore.
But homes are never happier;
the derring-do lyrics daring the cosh of the
constabulary,
the double-takes and GBH’d lampshades,
the loving entreaty of a protective matriarch,
and the tiny awed faces of a generation out of bed.