“Go down for the Belfast Telegraph,” she said,
“And a packet of Victory V for your da’s head cold.”
I put on my balaclava
And blundered into a riot.
Screaming saracens and bursts of smoke,
Disembodied cheers and shouts.
A wee fella ran past me
And hurled a green toffee paper at the troops.
“I died for
The thud of heavy boots in an echoing entry.
A trail of blood.
“Ambulance! Doctor! ….”
“Tell his wife they’ve taken him away!”
Yelled a parka jacket.
Around the corner, the chapel bell chimed
For devotions.
“No Telegraphs left, young Morrisey,
No Victory V either.
Here’s a packet of Tunes
To help him breathe more easily.”
He winked.