Five days in the glasshouse, then Friday night freedom

to paint the island any shade of tomato.

Pretend you’re Paul Newman and pot like a demon;

 

sneak back to the rooms with the seasonal women,

drinking whatever you can lay your lips on

and lose all your clothes after skinny dipping.

 

I was shagging two Irish girls – nothing cosmic;

one kicked with the left and one kicked with the right.

When the troubles began I was strictly agnostic

 

and escaped through the side door on Saturday night

as Doris was hammering out Colonel Bogey

and Pauline and Siobahn scratched each other to shite.

 

Sundays were wretched, not a single bar open;

some days a fog meant that planes weren't dropping

any news of the world; just smoking and moping

 

or join with the vermin, go crawling St. Peters

for a craic in the curtain, the trail of corks popping,

watching the waves break and jumping for Jesus.

 

We were under the jacket and over a barrel,

me and fifty thousand  alcoholics

clinging to a rock in the English Channel.