So Bill has set us a tricky set of instructos, some passengers have leapt aboard , others have crumbled by the wayside waiting for the chipper van and performing seals. Could be a long wait.
But anyway we had to think of/steal a line, delete the second half of it and invent new endings and then boil it for 20 mins, leave to simmer for a further 20 then serve (cooled) on a bed of rice with a Domestos and paraquat dressing.
I was going to explain the provenance of this poem to explain it a bit but I've lost the plot so I might do it later. Best just post the thing now. My line was from the Yeats poem called ' Ireland 1913' ......and was 'Romantic Ireland's dead and gone.'
Romantic Ireland retched and wrung,
Dead and gone.Half-cut pilgrim
Cold shouldered in The International.
A drunken parody plastic Saint Francis
broken and betrayed,
sandwiches soup and beds made
not for sleep for lying in.Barman
in namesake dungeon
casts a cold eye and cold tongue.
Kavanagh no ghost to be seen
Save for the obscene boredom, neglect
Nurtured in McDaids off Graffton Boulevard
Memories left to the picture postcards
who will remember to weep dry tears
for words so poor in spirit.
To save myself from hypocrisy,
the price of a last glass,
every coin posessed fumbled
with slur of patronising words
to grubby styrofoam.
The vultures have their pick
Dole out the liquid drugs
Behan battered nobody
Buried in some forgotten hole
the kindness of strangers lives on without us
Ferried off to some foreign land
Like O’Leary In his grave.