It feels wrong to be overly dramatic
On the history of my people.
The generations passed
Working a lord’s land,
Plantations, famine,
Sons and daughters loaded onto coffin ships,
And sent over the world’s edge.
Lives given
Chasing independence.
A sovereign state.
You know the story,
The long grey road that leads to me:
The fourth free Irishman.
But it’s difficult not to wax dramatic
When every job I seek
Requires me to piss into a plastic cup
And hand it to a stranger
Smiling.