An open Rosary, Sprawled on the table Has the shape of Eire. Towns joined like beads On winding, rope roads. At the end of the main street In Shercock, Lough Egish, Or a thousand other towns, Looms the church spire, God's rod. The square still bustles on Wednesdays. The smithy's forge Now lights up a Paddy Power; The Euro Store sells needles and thread Where once a seamstress sat; Shish Kabobs on flat bread sell Where the butcher's counter displayed the day's cut. But scrape away the paint And attend to the devotion and mystery Of small town Erin; Where only the pubs maintain names Decade after decade. There, on the wall, see the rebels Enjoying a football match, And the crowd, laughing, Has their backs.