Any Resemblance to a Minister for the Environment is entirely coincidental.
The clasp of his handshake once reassured
he’d not disappoint their daughters.
And though his infrastructure’s
in desperate need of an upgrade,
he’s confident he can get his
waterworks fit for purpose,
ladies and gentlemen, here tonight,
and those at home
watching on TV, sometime
within the next twenty
five years. And if doing so
every last rain drop,
from Bellmullet to Garryduff,
at a savage discount, to the guy
who despite his wallet’s ongoing
morbid obesity, has hair
that looks like it’s been stuck
to the skull with Evo-Stik,
then Kelly’s the kind of pragmatist
who’ll make shit like that happen,
whether anyone asked
it to or not.
His tongue rough
as the carpet in a room
where Stevie Coughlan
once talked against the Jews.
For the past six months,
every erection he’s had
has been a member
of the Heavy Gang
about to throw a Provo
onto the railings
from a Garda Station
second storey window.
According to recent polls,
in certain areas of Tipperary,
he’s only slightly less popular
than Richard the Third. At least
half a percent less hated
than this time last week.
Of unequivocal victory,
he has no alternative
but to be certain.
Saint is a new poem by Kevin Higgins dedicated to the “black babies wing of the Irish left, those who, to paraphrase GK Chesterton, are so busy loving humanity they can never find the time, or the inclination, to show solidarity with their next door neighbours.”
Because the progressive faction of the Magdalene Sisters
were no longer taking applications,
you instead tour the better fed Gender Studies Departments
of the Eastern Seaboard, preaching
your gospel of the little brown victim.
With the shrunken head of a Native American, ripped
from its original owner at the Battle of The Rickety
Left Elbow; the eyeballs of indigenous Bolivians
which have seen versions of Strictly
Come Dancing we can only imagine;
or, more prosaic days, with the rudely
annexed canine teeth of Palestinians,
which you carry about the place in a glass jar
you had specially made by a mate in Kinvara
who’s also a part time Shaman, you tickle
the consciences of those who think
life’s all olives and Pyrenees sheep brie,
and in return they titillate you
with all the fine cheeses.
For you are toast of the third world
liberation wing of Galway Lawn Tennis Club.