Shamrock on the Shorts
a fairy tale of Camden Town
Clancy’s Gym, the same old sounds
a minute’s rest then two more rounds
I’ll jack this in (like Bobby Prewitt)
but where’s the one who made me do it?
He hasn’t come, he’s never here
by now he’s on his second beer
presiding in the Dublin Castle
surrounded by his navvy vassals
they’re calling me “the Tralee Tiger”
I coulda been … where’s my Rod Steiger?
the jolting jab, fast on his feet,
the bantamweight that no-one’s beat…
my bucket? Something-Saint-John’s-Wood
and scum from gumshields, spit and blood
I’ve learnt a word I like – “effete”
You don’t hear that on Albert Street
He knows I never wanted this. He
said he’d cure me called me cissy
he calls me Rocky. What a sham
why can’t I be the thing I am?
I want to dance like Nureyev
which might explain the fury of
the shellacking that this lad’s getting
Look at those losers busy betting
Sad old slobs with Patterson poses
ten-buck suits and flattened noses
come to think, though, who’s the fool
they’re not up here on this stool
back room Clancy’s Masculine Sports
blood on the gloves, shamrock on the shorts
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