I stumbled into Merrion tow to listen to a tune. I fought my way down Grafton by the rising of the moon. I sat on the floor of my poxy room just me and the BBC eating bachelor’s beans out of the tin, there’s nothing here for me. And a rovin’ you will go. You are not the one she wants. You are just a ghost from an evening haunt and a rovin’ you will go. And you wish that she would stay for now your day is empty and it’s just another day. I put my pen to paper but there’s nothing to be said. I might as well be in the desert with a turban on my head. I could go to Trader John’s or I could shower and could shave. I could go on up to Wicklow and throw a rose on Ronnie’s grave. I drank until my bones shook and gathered all my pay. I stood outside the locked up bar along the bachelor’s quay. I had absolutely forgotten that it was Christmas day and now there’s nothing open and there’s nothing left to say. And it’s only Christmas day. And it’s just St. Stephen’s day.

INVIA LE CORREZIONI