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When Michael Collins came, first from the courts of England,
which in low and lofty Londoun lately were helde,
while Thames there with treachery and treasoun did truly ring,
was Ireland ill split and beset with ignoble stryfe.  
Yet there a land lately formed was, where still folk lyve on mydllerde.

Though it is not in this warlike time of Dev that we our tale do set,
after these tymes of troubling stryfe, contentioun salted still the land.

Fine Fail and Fine Gael, then foes many yeres remained
till noblest amongst them, in qualities none lacking,
did do battle in old Dublin and vanquish the dred enemy.  
That mon who dreded nought, nightly then held his court in fair Dail Eirinn.  
Enda was called that man, and everysince has his noble courte endured.  

There, as Chrystmasse came, was assembled his cabinet fayre:
there Sir Wilmore the red, who waited on the grete lorde in readiness.  
There with grete courtesey, the kings coins to keep, sat Sir Noonan the balde.  
There Sir Reilly, learned in lore of leach and herb, who on erde had little left to lerne.  
Eek Sir Varadkar the gaye who granted was, the grete kinges horses to groome.  
Laste, the lovely layde Burton, who, the rede rose of Wilmore would long after carry.  

Other knyghtes numerous were there, but of these now, nought will I
tell,
for fallen to feasting were this fayre companye al and fayne would I not,
in tedious trials of descriptioun, your patience for to trye.
The first brief installment of a romance in Alliterative verse.  Alliterative verse belonged to the North West of England, and is quite different to the southern style of English poetry which was made popular by Chaucer.  For one of the finest examples of this style of poetry, and the parodic source for this poem, see 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.' Pardon the spellings.
So....
Well
So....
Well then

So....
Indeed
So....
So indeed

I must point out...
Please Don't.  
I won't.
So, O2 are now 3.  
Thank you for telling me that, 50202.
They are going to keep me posted on changes.  
I can't wait.
This is actually a pretty bad poem.
So, was this Aeneas, who called on Jove to strike him dead, or else end his wanderings?  Was this Aeneas who wept on the deck of his ship?

Malcontent breads poetry as flies circle dungheaps and lay their larvae within.  

This was Aeneas, the cheerful man who wept on board his ship.  

Somewhere between College Park and Westland Row I sank for a moment into the earth.

This was Aeneas, the good.  

So, with the chimneys of the city as rosary beads, I shake my fist at Jove, and repeat the words of Aeneas.
On Dollymount Strand there is a man,
who picks up sand in his hands,
and lets it slip through his fingers,
and fall back to the earth.  

Fie, Gentle soul,
preserve your wit,
and carry on humanity
to the next ages
with your enduring symbolism.  

Rest not day or night, let sand slip through your hands, and save me from contemplation of my own existence:
Wretched state of terminal reciprocation.
A great many people cross the Liffey and dance on the shore,
At Ringsend the Pigeon House falls to earth, the dust settles,
Cuchulain leaps from Bull to Bull and retreats into the mountains.  
I linger for some time watching the waters pass beneath ha’penny bridge.
I’ll find me a garret, and in that garret,
Curse in undertones Windows Vista,
******* to the **** stanzas of Homer,
Drink cold coffee with the blood of a nation,
Finally, say with surety,
Here is a poem which has taken everything, and given nothing,
Here is everything that meant something to somebody at some time.
Well look, I barely know what this one means.   There's a Joyce reference in there somewhere.   The title says it all.
Well then, Jyuss swee Charlie, I suppose.
I hope your French is better than mine, dearest reader.  
And I hope you can draw better than me,
so Scribble on dearest reader.  
If all the world were paper, there would be no grip stronger than that of thumb and forefingers.  
If the world be paper, say with me, reader,
'Come the three corners of the word in arms,
and we shall shock them.'
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