She, forged from dew,

He, could only ensue,

Presumptuous thirst lurking at the back of her reversed moonless gullet,

He, the animate fowl punctured with her bullet,

Elderly father if it weren’t for the future, you seek in me,

I’d be a lonesome boy by a misplaced creek,

Aodhan, you may be pretty but you are the son of a Saint,

Ailidh, “You do not know the way”, You say,

If it weren’t for that loathsome black horse of yours, I’d be sleeping in Desmond’s chambers for the nights are bleak,

“Bleak?”, I say, “You say”,

“Weak”, I say, you say;

Should’ve eloped with Fiona upon that ghoulish horse,

Endorsed myself in ransomed shillings?

Rekindled in unforced sanctuary?

Shackled myself to a crucifix before January?

Lying to my father’s bastard brother that his forest is the shield of a beast,

It was all for show, a performance for the corrupt Priest!