The Dubs

We waited for the groom to fill his skirt
but he never appeared.
Lost in the Irish air, somewhere.

Cannot remember much,
just a bunch of Blighty
and the occasional dalek traffic light.

The Dubs were nowhere to be seen.
I’d expected to see the ghost of Joyce
in suit and satin
but the bobbled cobbled streets
were filled with Dutch.
Cannot remember much,
were filled with Portuguese
on the eve of the big match.

And the snatch
was black like Guinness
as skirt dragged like guzzlers
in the gutter.
I could hear them mutter
between the sips of sugared malt,
between the gaps of clotted gums.

The Dubs were nowhere to be seen.
I’d expected an Irish dance
but instead I got a menu
of wine and champagne
and a Polish girl named Eva.

And outside waiting for me a tramp
who for reasons unexplainable
called me a jealous bitch
in the gutter.
I could hear him mutter
between the sips of sugared malt,
between the gaps of clotted gums.