IRA: a poem

I am publishing this poem in celebration of the courage of justice in Northern Ireland to finally arrest Gerry Adams for ordering the cruel and heartless murder and disappearing of widow and mother of 10 Jean McConville.  Rot in prison, Gerry, and then in hell when it's your time to be pulled to the underworld by dark and sticky things when your body utters its last ragged breath.

And to Bobby Sands: sorry you're late for dinner; looks like Gerry got your portion, again.  But take it as a compliment if he tries the poo and blanket approach, even though judging by his Twitter I really don't think he'd be capable of skipping breakfast.  You should have known that murder does not attain political objectives, and you should have known this not only before starving yourself to death, but before you ever joined the IRA.  Civil rights was John Hume's job and he did a billion times more useful work than the IRA ever did.

To justice upon Gerry Adams.  As for you, Bobby Sands, don't be late for dinner again, you fucking numpty.  Maybe you'll come back in your next life as the world's greatest food critic.  In the meantime, I hope some eejit leaves a bucket of KFC on your grave.  It was all for naught.

Slainte mhaith.

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I.R.A.
by A.R. Carter

Vomit forth your evil,

let it rot into the earth,

for all you’ve sown is suffering

from dull day of your birth.

Your nation’s children would despise

their language and their song,

you twist and spout its hard reprise

in worship of the strong.

You won’t try to let them fly

on wings you never had,

but give them stone in anger thrown

and going slowly mad.

Vice becomes the price you take

for freedom at all cost,

political objective's snake

that bites the frightened lost.

A fist that strikes a shuttered mouth

in raining silent room,

a false idealistic light

brings darkness to the gloom.

And in the belly of the Earth

you sit like worm of old,

waiting for your nation’s birth

in bitterness and cold.

A heart of wild angry child

in mounting hate inflames,

assigning not an equal hand

but throwing only blame.

And you would claim to be the same

as Fianna bright and strong.

Rhetoric nods to valour’s gods,

but you’re dark Crom all along.