Oh for a draught of Keats' vintage wine
Or Twenty fluid ounces of Losty's turpentine
It's there he sits upon his stool, his place of zen, his place of rule. It's his throne, he sits alone, the pint in hand the cornerstone. No bullshit, no facetime, no instagrin or instagram. No self-absorbed narci-cunting game plan.
This is real life, this is Paddy's life, the life of a pintman. A man before scaremongering, bollock tactic fear enducing stay safe, stay at home, brush your teeth, seatbelts on, off we go to fuck knows where with fuck all who care.
He's ten pints in and our Paddy's not sure if it's more of the same or a packet of cripps.
A country on it's knees is no cause for concern, the pintman drinks his rock n'roll through scabby lips
And veined cheeks, he reeks, the pint leeks he jokes but there's no hole in that glass I'm afraid.
The only hole is the one Maureen lowers him into, condolences well and truly paid.
He's a pintman on a pedestal, but there's pintmen and credit still
goes to those who sacrifice it all for the price of a pint
Those who put glass to mouth and claim they're not reliant
When really are we not just celebrating our curse, our cross to bear
First chance of celebration or commiseration and we don't care.
It's pints we look to for consolation, affirmation, consultation, conversation, good vibration.
Stained taches, yellow teeth and yellow eyes follow those self righteous from Tara street train station
Along the quays they bank away the days, or is it wank away the man who pays
The ultimate price.
Bastards says the man scorned once too many times
Who's really out of pocket for those white collar crimes
For what died the sons of Roisin echoes through to Westland Row
As Paddy Losty goes at it awful and very hard, what has he to show?
Only crooked teeth and crooked hopes of a country hell bent on bending hell.
By Larry O'Regan