Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Oz Songs About Overseas” (really Jon?).

Good afternoon Jon and greetings this week from South Wales, just outside of Cardiff.

Perhaps it’s the muggy weather, perhaps I’m missing Ed, but I’m feeling a little recalcitrant, so this week I haven’t written a poem – or prose for that matter but a song.

In stark contrast to previous visits to Dublin, on this occasion I didn’t yield to the local brew but spent the night and next morning wandering the streets watching them blur into one another.

Sunday Morning in Dublin.


To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:

Also have a listen to the songs on the New Album “Angel In Reverse


Sunday morning in Dublin

The buskers have long gone from Grafton street
Home to count their rewards
The juggler, the fiddler, the girl who eats fire
The boy with his two lonely chords
Now a mangy old dog has the street to himself
Follows his nose round the bins
The tourists were kind to the buskers
Perhaps they’ve left something for him
He finds his reward, a cold bag of chips
They disappear in one bite
It’s Sunday morning in Dublin and what’s left of Saturday night

The girls are all dressed up like hookers
Relieving themselves in the Mens
Next weekend one’s getting married
Tonight she’s out with the hens
She’d rather be home with her friends round a fire
Quietly having a few
But she’ll go bar to bar in fishnets and rouge
Cause it’s what you’re expected to do
They’ll drink and they’ll dance, they’ll laugh and they’ll flirt
Then head home high as a kite
It’s Sunday morning in Dublin and what’s left of Saturday night

The last of the lads spill out of the clubs
Long given up hope of romance
They’re the ones who didn’t get lucky
And the ones who were never a chance
Drift off in every direction
Spread out like spokes on a wheel
They don’t even notice how cold its turned
As they stagger the thirteen pint reel
You know next weekend, they’ll be back here again
Searching for love or a fight
It’s Sunday morning in Dublin and what’s left of Saturday night

An old couple walk down by the liffy
As they have every week since they wed
Headed for church, the first of the day
As the rest of the town heads for bed
They pass a boy wrapped in a blanket
Drop a few coins onto his plate
Then take him home for some breakfast
I guess Jesus, he won’t mind the wait
In a moment they’re gone, swallowed up by the mist
Turned blue by the street corner light
It’s Sunday morning in Dublin and what’s left of Saturday night

© Copyright 2014 Ian Bland

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