I stayed there once, Or rather, I nearly stayed there once. But that's another story. At any rate they lived in this decrepit caravan, not two miles out of Carrick, Encroached upon by baroque pyramids of empty baked bean tins, rusts And ochres, hints of autumn merging into twilight.
Baling wire. And, of course, shelves and pyramids of tins. It had rained That day, but it was looking better. They had just put in the spuds. I had only come to pass the time of day, so I bought a token packet of Gold Leaf.
All this time the fry was frying away. Maybe she'd a daughter in there Somewhere, though I hadn't heard the neighbours talk of it; if anybody knew, It would be Horse. Horse kept his ears to the ground. And he was a great man for current affairs; he owned the only TV in the place. The bus was stopped, the peeler stepped on.
Young Flynn Took it like a man, of course: he owned up right away. He opened the bag And produced the bomb, his rank and serial number. For all the world Like a pound of sausages. Of course, the thing was, the peeler's bike Had got a puncture, and he didn't know young Flynn from Adam.
All he wanted Was to get home for his tea. Flynn was in for seven years and learned to speak The best of Irish. He had thirteen words for a cow in heat; A word for the third thwart in a boat, the wake of a boat on the ebb tide.
