MADE HIS WAY FOR THIS.

AN IRISHMAN IN DUBLIN AND WHY HE WENT THERE.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And he made his way
Into Dublin and for what?
For this? To be sitting on

 

His brawny behind in a bar
Hugging a pint of the mighty
Guinness, a copy of Ulysses

 

On the small table in front of
Him, marked with a thin piece
Of string so he wouldn’t lose

 

His place and talking to any
Who’d give him their ear, and
Be watching, as he talked, the

 

Fine women moving about
The bar, taking in the legs
And fine figures and faces

 

Of them, and without losing
His place in conversation,
Would see them going to

 

And fro and with his eyes,
Following the behinds of
Their retreating backs, and

 

Sometimes he’d be sitting
There and the odd women 
Or so would sit herself down

 

Beside him, and look at him
And watch his lips move the
Words about like a juggler,

 

And making sense of the
Ulysses they never knew it
Possessed, and all the time

 

The beery breath of him would
Let the words hang in mid air
As if they’d wings, and then once

 

He had the fair maidens (as he
Called them) eating out of his
Voice, he’d sponge on them for

 

Another mighty Guinness or pint
Of porter, or if he really sensed he
Had them thrilled, he’d pluck out

 

For a double JB and kisses and
Hugs from sweet girl Lizzie, who
Loved his voice (and his heart) and
His reading from the book by Joyce.