‘The auld Irish Sod’. By Randall Stephen Hall

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“You’re a nothing.

Just a nothing.”

No, I won’t be having that.

No, I won’t be having that at all.

I’ve been met by a wall at times.

A wall to keep me out.

A wall to keep me in.

But my sin

My very sin, is to merely confirm

That no, I’ll not be having that now.

No more of yer auld flannel.

You can just shove it.

Channel it elsewhere.

Bury it in a sheugh.

I don’t care.

Put it anywhere

But don’t dump it on me

Just because you can’t see me

For who I am.

As Irish as you man.

And just as mongrel.

Prod, taig or lightning rod.

I’ll be damned if some silly sod

Will keep my mouth shut

For I am the the boat and very contradiction

To your grey green slapping waves.

“The outsider, not Irish at all.

You can’t get in our boat.

For we are pure”

(Aye, as pure as the Lagan on a hot day.)

So free yer auld sectarian traps

And release your dogs of war

To love each other stupid.

A fucking fresh frenzy of attraction.

Wth the rumba rhythm of love action.

To puppy our land

With bloody hand shaking hand.

One almighty hug of love.

If you want to call me anything at all

Call me Irish, call me friend, call me lover.

But without the auld flim flam

For I am the jam in the door.

You can’t close it on me anymore.

Fill the old iron bath with our scrap metal

The shrapnel from our tongues and the peeling waste

Of our skin buckets

For potato Irish is not me, deedly dee.

And kick it over the Cliffs of Moher.

“You’re a nothing.

Just a nothing.”

No, I won’t be having that.

I won’t be having that at all, anymore.

Call me Irish, call me lover, call me friend.

Lick it, stick it.

Then press send.