John McCullagh August 30, 2007
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"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 Ireland and a penny dainty."

 

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.

 

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