by Patrick Naughton
This poem was inspired by a day in Galway listening to the hymns of the past and the ghosts of the present:
There was an old man who looked dead and gone,
pale as death with the reaper beside,
he held the black juice dear to his soul,
when he played the accordian these angels appeared,
these angels had instruments of their own,
a guitar, a flute and a seanog spawned,
they drank, they sang about times long gone,
oh t'was a day to remember in that snug alright,
i saw the old man nearly dead and gone,
playing that beautiful song till night,
they sang about bogs and twigs that day,
reminded me of a tale someone once told,
never fall into a bog or there'll be trouble to pay,
cos once your in, you'll never be out,
maybe that's what happened to the old man,
fell into the snug that cold winters day,
and until this time he will remain.
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