Public House Redemption

it’s pissing down,        
in this god forsaken town.        
tyres splash,        
gutters heave,        
and i lost two hundred ,        
full house over full house.        
what can you do?        
the fucker didn’t even smile          
as he racked in the cash.        
         
gaudy christmas lights        
and the smell of cheap fried food        
don’t improve my mood.        
i slip into the nearest pub        
just to put space between        
myself and my brain.        
i ordered a pint.    
there a auld lad two seats down        
and we get chatting about  state of things.      
turns out  he’s quite the barstool revolutionary.        
said he read marx was now starting on mao.  a brendan behan quote popped into my head        
"work is the curse of the drinking class".      
i got another pint with a whiskey chaser.        
         
they came in ,        
nearly unseen        
quiet and respectful    
two ordinary looking men    
and girl not more than nineteen    
     
they started with a soft low lament.     
that nearly split my heart in two,      
if my spirit wasn’t so broken        
i could have cried        
and when she began to sing sean nos,        
with those long protracted notes.        
my mind recalled those famine times.        
of straving wrecks plucking  rotting spuds        
from barren soil.        
and the smell of death on famine ships        
as they sank beneath the atlantic’s freezing waves.        
and the croppy boys who faced their foes        
with pikes and shovels and tattered bows.        
each one slaughtered          
from wexford to meath.        
with a cold hand on a english gun.        
so much suffering for such a little isle.        
as the fiddle began playing,        
it’s last haunting refrain.        
i realised all my agony        
was all self inflicted pain.        
i raised a glass to the marxist chap        
i think he understood too.