You hand the neatly folded junior cert paper to the examiner. It is the sixty-second so far. You do not know when it will stop.
You take another teabag from the packet and throw it into your cup. You look again and there is another cup. You wonder who you are to share the tea with but then you hear it behind you.
You leave Dublin and are hit with a smell. You know it's slurry. You know the farmers are responsible. You don't know why, and you don't want to.
You're driving through a small town. You look to your left and there is a centra. There's always a centra.
You are asked again: "King or Tayto?". Deep down you know that both are godless religions.
The Sunflower is a void filled with spice bags
You stand in the mist, somewhere in the Burren. It is cold, and you are lost. You feel a sudden warmth in your heart, and you know. You know that Michael D. is near.
At night you hear the screams of combat as the local supervalu and the local centra carry out ritual combat to assert their dominance.
You are asked who left the immersion on. You do not no, and no-one ever will.
Do it for the craic. The craic demands it.
gowan gowan goWAN GOWAN GOOOWAAAAAN
You are asked to select you weapons, and there in front of you is a chicken fillet roll and an Irish textbook.
You hear voices calling from within the sraithpictuir. You ignore them.
You were never told what the Guinness storehouse stores. You don't want to know.
It's always raining. It is the curse of a long forgotten deity for not inviting him in for a cuppa.
Enda Kenny comes from a lawless time. You no not who he is, let alone what he is.
