Disappeared my ass.

The rain softened voices
and unburnished hides.
Hacking coughs and cigarettes
the burr.
Grey cloud and days of failing sun
pales pinched faces.

Small towns and tiny villages
made us local.
Lack of home-grown jobs
made us international.

We have not conquered countries.
But the paddy scene
rules supreme
in neighbourhoods
from Liverpool and Manchester
to Adelaide and Boston.

We drink to remember
and drink to forget
And still we drink less
than the Spanish, Italians
and French.

We are not reactionary
we are revolutionary.
We pour our rebellion into whisky
songs and words between
the covers of earnest tombs.

Self deprecating, self effacing.
We are the singing, writing,
drinking, fighting Irish.
called the disappeared!
Disappeared my ass.

– Dave Kavanagh.

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