Buskers line the lanes of Dublin
Mirroring the beer taps in the city pubs,
One by one the tourists bustle in
Like grains of rice flowing into cups,

There is a ****** out on these streets
And the marching Garda are in pursuit,
Muffling the young kestrel’s tweets
And the boys who wear butcher suits,

Bodies line the lanes of Dublin,
Cutthroat lanes brushed with blood
Where the brownnoses come rushing in -  
The watershed has burst from the flood,

For, death is sown into these streets
And life has turned quaint in defeat.