FortuitousFenian

31361 pts · June 27, 2015

In Belfast, Europe, your man Met the Military come to raid The house: ‘Over my dead body Sir,’ he said, brandishing A real-life sword from some Old half-forgotten war … And youths with real bows and arrows And coppers and marbles good as bullets And old time thruppeny bits and stones Screws, bolts, nuts (Belfast confetti), And kitchen knives, pokers, Guinness tins And nail-bombs, down by the Shore Road And guns under the harbour wharf And bullets in the docker’s tea tin, And gelignite in the tool shed And grenades in the scullery larder And weedkiller and sugar And acid in the french letter And sodium chlorate and nitrates In the suburban garage In the boot of the car And guns in the oven grill And guns in the spinster’s shift And ammunition and more, more Guns in the broken-down rusted Merry-go-round in the scrapyard – Almost as many hard-on Guns as there are Union Jacks