Sundays

We stood outside those church doors
Sucking on cigarettes
And telling tales
Of last night exploits
Mostly half truths
Embellished and embossed
Listening to murmuring
Of the religious folk
Pop our heads in for the communion
And the priest reminding locals
Of their parochial duties
Then down to Creans
For pints of black goodness
And salty Bacon sandwiches
From sour face Maggie behind the bar
No politics no religion that was the rule
Things could get real ugly real quick
Insults being thrown about long dead cousins
And treacherous uncles
They find it hard to forget in Ireland
We lay the money down
To see who was king of pool
Our small fortunes won and lost
By blurry eyes  and shaky cues
Back home by six
Collapse on the couch
Rise by nine
A shit a shave and shower
And back again upon the drink express
Into town to see what we can find
Do the grand tour of our five pubs
Then into the disco
To find a "cailin deas" to slowdance with
And hopefully a bit more.
how naive we were
Just easy and free
What did we care for
For them religious freaks
who tried to sell salvation to our drunken souls
And worthless men and money grabbing whores
Who constantly bleat on about the state of economy
I do it all again in a heartbeat
if only I could remove these tiresome shackles from my feet