Deliriously interested – in the proverbially abnormal founding’s

To us the background is her artificially pontificated foreground

These (mysteriously) written statistics, substantially
She is a tad little big bit otherworldly at being. Terrifically r-e-a-l.
A home away from home = a holiday-maker’s paradise twisted blessedly pressed amidst
Your very own island –
Drifted amongst the (battle-hardened) flags for our fallen forefathers – utter animosity twisted blessedly pressed amidst absolute equality in warmongering mannerisms
This is His last great stand and his next set daughter is only eighteen years idly – idyllically – young right about now = forever flow with the twist of the blessedly pressed pen poised of a strifetime
Only her eyes have been (constantly) crying – recalling all of the crime.
And to (simply) think that they had the awful audacity to call him an English poet.
About as English as (the current accent of) The Irish Sea …
The Nobel Prize in misshapen, mistaken literature will be his (international) guise
About as Irish as his eyes.
So precise.
The rhyme needn’t never be there, even…
Enough now, about to bounce back to a reality. His living, seething, outright actuality.