Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Poem - The Prostitute Party

Labour’s Gilmore an old whore trying to sell herself in bad light
‘clients’ ignoring the smell of rotting principles
Connolly roaring mad through the Hall of the Slain
the Party shroud the dead skin of social justice
a few decent people having the decency to resign
the damned generation pouring out into a vindictive world
the new concentration camp terminal quietly efficient
airlines clamouring to take bodies away
putrid politicians bent over backwards towards The Troika
diligently stealing from the corpse of old Ireland