When Michael Healy-Rae set down his borrowed crown,
No grief arose—just murmurs, edged with doubt;
The cap stayed firm, the practiced rustic gown,
A costume worn till threads of truth wore out.
He hailed the mud, the mart, the narrow lane,
Yet counted wealth where few could ever see;
A “man of people” fluent in their pain,
But richer far than those he claimed to be.
Each folksy phrase, a coin well-spent on trust,
Each grin a hedge against the questions pressed;
The boots seemed caked in honest Kerry dust,
Yet never bore the weight the poor confessed.
So exits he—not felled, but slipping through:
A mask removed, revealing what we knew.
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