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’.