Ireland's OWN Poetry and Prose

Thou Art
—by The Wandering Bard

Thou art the icy blade that was used
To stab in the back and pierce your own land’s heart
But as the heat of our Fenian fury turns into
The fire of revenge, like the ice-blade part
You play; you’ll melt and evaporate too
Destroyed by those you killed, wounded and bruised

Thou art a disgusting puppeted fool
So the blame belongs to the Crown as well as you
But if you were a true puppet made of wood
Hesitation would not save you from what you’re due
As the fire turned you into ashes, our revenge would be made good

Yet true puppet you’re not, for no puppet could ever be so cruel
Thou art a portrait of wretched disgrace
That I am sorely tempted to purge from the Earth
My fury knows no end for what you’ve done to the land I love
As you step over those you betrayed with joy and mirth

I call upon your head hellfire from below and above
Yet even such decimation would not rid my hatred of your face
Thou art an abomination to my sight, so depart
Before civility escapes me and thru my furious desire

Into Hell’s hands I condemn thy cursed, thieving soul
That for your deeds you may burn in the eternal fire
And regret forever that you shattered my life and crushed my soul
For when you stole the land I love from me, you destroyed my very heart