Patrick Kavanagh


Ah when will they come again,
Their arms stretched out before them like soft, rather hypocrite men
Coaxing the neighbours creeping babe to chance
The little legs? Come duckie can't you dance!
       They might have been priests - ritually
There was nothing in their di-dos would not be
Correct to the point of cliché staleness
In a chapel of Saint John, or sacristy
Where whisper-fogs [] the prosaic arrangements.

Friend who have laughed, the laugh is on yourself
These twain of comic-wonder did not hoax
To patronage or denial or true acceptance
Where the poets' tree whirled its chariot-spokes.
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