Dark grounds. Sharp moon.
He slips between the gates.
Welcome to St-Columba Cemetery:
Home of William Butler Yeats.

A graverobber,
scanning for the famous,
straying through the stones.
After all, shame has never homegrown.

He lumbers, he hungers
hoping to scavenge Death’s dinner.
Any sense of light getting
thinner and thinner.

At last,
our famous poet is found.
Whose steps may stomp on holy ground.
Dear Morrissey surely would be proud.

With dusk still looming,
he stands over casket defiant.
Crassly exhuming
the body of a giant.

Now, years begone.
His sun having set on many lawn.
His songs now carried to the grave
Another poet yet to be made.