Slip away from you,
Is forty-nine, how the week before last
You could drink a pub dry and now
You’re content with a glass of red wine,
Isn’t it terrible how things slip away…”
“You’re right there,” she said and thought
Of her mother not quite three years dead.
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That lone bar fly you get talking to:
My Dad’s lot were from Longford,
You begin, Ancient Mariner style,
My Mum’s from Castlebar:
Pause while you buy him a pint
(Kid yourself on that his quivering
Smile’s an encouraging grin),
Follow through with your
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