Six Thousand Three Hundred and Fifty-Five Síofra Galvin 3C

“Jeez every schmuck in Europe thinks

We owe ‘em a living.

Who the hell am I, Mother Teresa?

What’s his name?” “Oliver, Sir.”

“An Irishman named after Cromwell

Ain’t that a blast?

His name is Pat, start him in the basement.

God damn country is crawling with Micks”.



Six thousand, three hundred and fifty-five;

All cases just like yours.

Apparently one third are children.



A cabbie hangs perilously from

His battered car window.

“Get your lazy ass outta my way!

We all got somewhere to go round here.

You wear that red hair like it’s a yellow star.

I ain’t no racist lady

But you gotta tone down that Irish

To make it over here”.


“I would like to stress we are in no way racist”*

We just don’t believe

That this is the right place.


“You going home now Irish?

Can’t take the heat no more?

I ain’t sorry to see you go.

We got a thousand other Micks to take your place.

Filled your pockets with our gold?

Think you’re going to change your world?

You’ll be back, you never learn.

That ocean keeps tossing you onto our shore”.


Meals are provided and a small allowance

But ultimately “it’s an issue

That is nothing to do with any of us”*.







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