After the shift, it's down the dell,
I'm rolling dice with icy hand,
my best butties warming my soul with old banter.
It's a good craic until Mary spies me,
claws me into bracken.
And so I find, upon my head,
a crown of thorns. I have Christ's luck.
Again I've won an empty house;
a plate of cold, tired spaghetti;
a TV loud with quiet murder.
I whisper, plead,
I canker her with confetti promises,
and still our sex is so much
hard butter spread over burnt toast.
Unwrapping her beneath the sheets,
my hands yearn for the warmth of dice,
the craic, banter, my familiar hell.
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