The Bodhrán

His shaking hands produces,

Sticky rain drops on his shirt cuffs,

His toe taps endlessly to the bodhran beat,

Scars on his back induces memories ,

Of the flirt with hand cuffs,

Where he is he will remain for fear of losing his seat.

A whaling woman whimpered by the wind,

“Shut the door and your mouth, will ya come in!”

Preposterous beauty propels his bellowing,

“Your eyes are no more fantastical than oozing with sin”.

Like a swan in the sea,

Her splendor was uninvited,

Seething waves of,

Disparagers crashed into her,

Her presence an antidote to the tavern blighted.

Hardened palms pressurizing his pint,

Hardship hath hardened his heart,

Malevolently muffles “daoine ag caint”,

Resentment to those who haven’t played their part.

Knees knock and shoulders quiver,

As he rises to his feet,

“My fingertips accustomed to a trigger,

Aye my wounds did cut deep,

Participant of a war with no winner,

Narre a soldier today with a heartbeat,

For I am heartless and soulless,

and whatever you else you will jeer,

Your passing to the Republic was toll-less,

With no truth comes no fear”.

Gloriously gliding she skipped to his table,

“You drink enough bitter it is what you become,

I heard your heart break during your fable,

Was your strain not for your daughters and son,

You speak in slurred not from poisonous piss,

But from your rotting tongue,

What you did obtain,

Is younger than this very pub,

It is not in vain,

Nor is it a private club,

Molded by pain,

We show nothing but love,

A new nation that is nothing without yourself”.

His pint still shook,

due to his nerves,

His toe still tapped to the bodhrán,

as did hers.