Comes to mind as another small
Amongst the rubble.
His eye matches exactly the bubble
In my spirit-level.
I set aside hammer and chisel
And take him on the trowel.
The entire population of Ireland
Springs from a pair left to stand
Overnight in a pond
In the gardens of Trinity College,
Two bottle of wine left there to chill
After the Act of Union.
There is, surely, in this story
A moral. A moral for our times.
What if I put him to my head
And squeezed it out of him,
Like the juice of freshly squeezed limes,
Or a lemon sorbet?