Their sex – life, of late, has been flagging,

Reform’s flaccid flagpoles are sagging:

wind-blown rags line their streets,

whilst ‘bout litter, Gammon bleats,

but they’re saddos, and their thing’s flag – shagging. 

Le Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh,

Dé Céadaoin, an naoú lá is fiche, mhí Eanáir,

An Bhliain Dhá Mhíle is Fiche a sé...

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The driver peers through smoke, looking for the flag.

Annus mirabilis. How Noel Coward despised young people.

Well, he would, wouldn’t he? The trick is making connections,

if there are any. The end of National Service.

The Establishment caught with its trousers down.

You had to be with-it. These funny little railway lines

really weren’t. John Betjeman might scribble a few li...

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It was 1960

Only fifteen years after the War ended

(Though we did'nt know it) and the

Prevailing dogma, a brave new world meant

Knocking down brick terraces

(Often quite servicable)

To build ten-storey flats.

Kids like us played in derelict houses

Door-less and

Stripped of copper and roof-slates their

Dank stone cellars exciting with

What today they call memorabili...

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I’m not even angry at you

And I never was

Confused, yes

Hurt, yes

Frustrated, yes, but from confusion

I can’t be angry with you

Or at you

But I am angry

I’m angry that I put my best effort

That I tried so hard

I’m angry that this happened again

My best was not good enough

I’m angry that I ignored the signs

Such small flags

Warning me from the beginning

...

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