The best minds fell like hay before the scythe
the year the Pope came and kissed the ground,
we kissed the fucking ground ourselves
wounded and drunk
and mad as brushes
joedunne niallrush billyholmes,
the best minds falling through the
door of Ryan’s on Baggot Street
or a day out in Clontarf,
the best minds penniless
wasted with drink and worry
joedunne niallrush dinkydunne,
i can still see the children
left behind
their sad lost stares
at eveningtime,
with the moon rising over
Blackrock Park,
a sadness never to dissolve
clinging to the coast
like fog or mist
and at dawn we went home
through the gates of Hell
through the Corpo’s brokendown cordon
and the dirty streets
made bearable with heroin and speed.
Here’s a song that’s left now
when nothing else is,
when even the children’s children
are dead
and their dreams speechless
like falling stars:
how i know now what
i didn’t know then:
how children fall
like stars from
their dreams,
all falling
now,
the
hay
before
the
scythe.
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