To Eddie McGrath

Conor Lynam reflects on a pint with a friend.

Part 1

Pints with a pal
September and nothing finer than to meet a pal for a pint.
The trees have had enough of the sun and decided to shrink.
I've a way to go but something inside tells me to keep moving.
I put headphones on but struggle for a song to carry me on.
Maybe it's not written yet.
The leaves like baldness reluctantly leave their host.
I push on through spells of sun and spitting showers.
Tired but determined.
I hope he's there, and has a pint on.
The creamy stuff that makes cats lick their lips.

Part 2

I hope he comes, sometimes he bites more than he can chew.
I'm after sticking him on a pint and all.
He's always late, always.
His pint now looks like watery tea, or one of them fancy drinks that the suits sip on.
I wouldn't mind but it's a crap bar, more like a prison.
If it was my choice I wouldn't be here at all

Part 3

I hope he doesn't think I won't show, I'm a tiny bit late.
I had to stop when I strolled, coffee was calling me.
Put the foot down, toss the coffee aside, he's waiting.

Part 4

I met, hugged and held him, an effort worthy of my walk.
The pint was warm, but I drank it down.
It was the worst pub ever, felt like a prison.
There wasn't a window in sight, except for the ones that showed our souls.
I had to go, no time to get another, but next time I will. 

⏩ Conor Lynam is a Dublin Republican

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