FREE UP THE TATTERSALL
The broken man wears his fabric out :
a shirttail shirt gleaming in the light,
an Irish rover who can never grow dim.
I dip to groan. I imbibe the jive. I
hip to hop. The next tongue I see,
I swear, it gets chopped.
There's no origin like an old origin,
all made up and filled with crap. I
once lived here, and I did all that.