Dingle, County Kerry, Ireland
On April first, she was the fool
To point a finger and blame
Out it came, but it was lame
It had no reason, and certainly no rhyme
She had said it at the wrong time
It blew the courthouse to smithereens
There was anger, shouting, and even felony
And screaming, running Queens
The fires went ablaze, too early and too low
And it sent the crows, flying out the windows
It never came, it never closed
The pigeons, that carried the bill
Of rights all took flight
They were overdue, and undelivered
Never answered, and dropped in the marsh
It was really all quite harsh
The people couldn't solve the myth
But really it was pretty simple
They just didn't want to be civil
It was a shame, as they sat on gold
To argue indifference, and grow old
And just do the job their mother told
All the while, the towns people
Were gathering by the steeple
'Take her away from the children!
She has painted herself as a whore!
She brews spells in her cauldron!
And she's obsessed with mythical lore!'
The unsaid truth, was snared
In the wolf's tooth, it bounded, leaped
And tore apart the whore
It was chaos, foul, ugliness at its best
The entrails ran through the streets
And the wise old men, in the guise of the wren
Just laughed on, while playing chess
The confession box, had never seen so many a tip
It was like magic, from lip to lip
The bottles, were left standing behind the bar
As if on purpose, keeping ills inside a jar
'Shouldn't she be in jail!?'
'But onwards, forwards, away we will sail!
We'll lock up the King!
And adorn him with a golden ring!'
On April first, she was the fool
One year, to shed some tears
And fly away with the ravens
Only the eagles could save her
With the sixth labour as punishment
A pen, a nickel, and a feather.
September 7th 2021
Niamh Bridget Kennedy