she sits in a bar,
a beautiful dame,
her eyes red as the blood her father bled:
years of guilt.
her mother cried pints of sorrow.
now, she sits with an Irishwoman’s gloom over her head,
hands hanging like misery’s allegory:
the perpetual sin, the Irishwoman says,
drunk in the light of her own melancholy
and asks for a dance, oh that beautiful dame,
stepping on lit cigarettes and burning berets,
they dance,
misery’s allegory:
the perpetual sin.
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