1916

Stand down sons of 
destiny for the 
benefactors of the 
dealers have come to 
steal history from under 
your feet.

You quiet men who 
stood solid on the 
threshold of history, 
who courted death in 
the name of freedom. 

Giants who stood in 
Kilmainham yard and 
bought freedom hard 
with pain and blood and 
death. Your memory 
besmirched by 
gombeens.

Small wheedling men 
step from your mighty 
shadows to gazump 
honour and claim the 
right of  rack renters. 
Replace those you 
deposed. 

Small wheedling men 
with small wheedling 
voices who assert a right 
to be heard in your 
names. 
Failing and gealing, 
another axe come to 
collect Henry’s tax

Small wheedling men 
starting with Dev 
brought this country to 
its knees, small 
wheedling mouths 
spreading crippling disease.

Men that stood up, but 
only when big quiet men 
stood up before them, 
small wheedling men 
hanging from the 
bootstraps of history. 

Assassins who stepped 
from cold night to snuff 
out the light that heroes 
ignited. 
A bullet in the back for 
the men who saw the 
path to real freedom.

Not a fool who swore 
pacts with other 
demons, dreaming of 
maidens dancing at 
cross roads, roads 
already sold to party 
sons. The bastards put 
you down.

Drowned you in shame.
and pain, 
Buried you at Beal na Blath 
and utter nonsense over 
your grave once a year. 
Little wheedling
sleveens. The knaves. 
Little men who sold your 
dreams.

© Dave Kavanagh 2016

© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com

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