Eye bullets, sneer lip, spitfire
Man made of home and ink stain
Tilt neck, hand splay, knee walker
Indignant music draws him to the sea
Ireland awaits thee, bastard son,
tell Apollo he shall deceive Death no more
Anger of the righteous, humor of the left
Union of the union and the bard
From this pool of clay we'll sculpt a
stage and wait for Tom, he beats
Godot because he's penniless and sore,
he smells of cider presses clocking
Fruit in measured cups and a
Single day in Dublin's all it is.
Rejoice, beckon, sing.
Joyce, Beckett, King.
Walk, wait, kill. ('em all)
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