A t   S t r o k e s t o w n

A man makes a fortune selling trucks.
But, unlike most in that trade
He does give a fuck
And becomes philanthropic.
What my small town needs
(He decides) is a Famine Museum.
He builds a Famine Museum.
It's ok, so so, well alright, but.
His small town is still a small town.
Albeit one with a Famine Museum.
What my small town needs
(He decides) is a Poetry Festival.
So it is organised and now they gather,
The poets, the State Poets of Ireland,
With a sprinkling of Arts Administrators,
Poetical groupies and Aosdana wannabees.
X Factor, without the glamour, I suppose.
And a strange enough bunch, be it said,
These State Poets of Ireland.
A problem seems to be a general lack of talent.
But, worse, far worse than that, they're weird,
The subsidised State Poets of Ireland.
Weird, in appearance and behaviour
Vaguely reminiscent of train spotters,
Continually and twitchily on the lookout
For the belching steam of Heaney
To come puffing down the tracks,
Pull up at the platform and ooze
Hot air late into the Roscommon night.

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