POEMS
J.
Patrick Byrne
ETCHING
Before our Gaelic order pasded
A poet had the power to cast
Blight on foe in flesh or purse
By limning him in blistering verse:
Amergin, Keating, Merriman,
The Dean, and Yeats-all barbed a rann;
Has the power come down to me?
This, then, mine enemy:
Meetly was the slut begot
In nuptial orgy when sire sot
Mounted that brobdingnagian trull.
Though Maids of Honour stank to Gul–
liver astride a monstrous teat,
Their perfumed bosoms passed for sweet
With lovers of appropriate size:
So sot approved that trull's gross thighs.
His drunkard's lust knew hurried levee;
Drunken sleep fell quick and heavy;
Fulfilled, and sated, bride and groom
Snored. Deep in enormous womb
Seed of sot's and trull's loud rut,
Foully fungoid, swelled to slut.
Thus began their country's shame
When Wigglesworth to Jordan came.
Now thirty-odd: bobbed, greasy hair
A frame for sodden eyes that stare;
Slobbering lips show yellow fangs;
Her dugs are sacks, and belly hangs;
As other cats' her breath smells sweet;
Water seldom sullies feet;
Conceived in alcoholic heat;
Graceful as any streel's her walk;
Virago's endless squall her talk.
Sure, little need for bitter verse;
To wish her length of days were worse,
She herself her own worst curse–
Woman foul as senile lust
That would, but cannot; fumbles dust....
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