Irish Blue
Monsoon poetry
Boston Blue-
Rooms at Ten Shillings a week
Sun seldom
shines here
Sea cook wears
rumpled stockings
Ax to grind
drinking ships rum
Steams of
coffee blew all day
Not worthy her
blue eyes
Pre-nativity
post-mortality fallen
Candle she
stuck in a bottleneck
Not for her to
horrify
Last flow of
Champaigns pee down the toilet
Like a burr
sticking in side