Love and Laughter

You have posessed [sic] me, distressed me in my nine mood muses
I walk around the jail parade-ring till your third-degree bruises
Are a bloody net about my loins. 
The gravel under my bare feet is the shingle
Of the brimstone quoins.

Ting-ting tingle
Goes your little hell of speech
And I grow daft and dafter…
Free me O God, put laughter
Within a lover's reach.

§ In Line 3, ‘shoulders’ is written beside ‘loins’.
In Line 7, ‘boulders’ is written beside ‘quoins’.
The poem is marked ‘Dublin Mag’.