Cronies
My mother tells me of life in Port a down. She tells me of the
bodies of king Billies cronies piled so high near Banbridge
you could walk across. Of coarse the bodies were mangled and unnumbered. Run
through with
pitch forks so deep their guts were left midstream. I recall similar
instances of the
cruel. My uncle with long deep hair glistening from lack of wash and his
yellow
toothless grin. He would sit me on his lap and tell me of a fresh new
beating. A Fenian, a dirty Fenian, was left sprawling in front of a soldiers
disco. Caught
red handed in the act of trying to cross the line. The heart was beat out of
him. My
uncles stale breath left me reeling. His slapped his thighs as if they were
gone
numb. A smile so deep you could see the back of his throat.
He is still there, in Ireland, his hair shortened now. A new man of
the times. Slick suit, clean tie. Laying low he lets other bad boys do
the work. The fight for rights "no American can dare understand."