He didn’t copy them
Per se
He spaced it out
Took an acre of clout
A little from everyone
A lot like the banks in Ireland have done
This is how he did it
Got all too creative
Spit between his hands
He went about the tall task with no such mask
Nobody knew that what he was planning to do
Was wrong
His mother comes into his room one morning
“Son, I want a breakfast, a tea. Can you do that for me?”
He scribbles this down
In the meantime she waits with the makings of a frown
He listens to a song
“Everybody hurts…”
His now
The line he does go about putting into his trusted pad
Is what he is doing maybe a tad unfair
Even as much as sad
As it comes together
He goes for a walk
Sits it out on the wall over the road
Gets listening to two ol’ biddies talk
“What you and Paddy havin’ for yer dinner?”
Scribbles it down on his hand
That should do grand
If the ol’ biddies had known
They’d be straight down church praying for their neighbourly sinner
Their eyes only
When he returned to his pad
A part of him was glad
He’d been so very productive
A story to tell all of its own
Although this was the hardest part
‘Cos when it came to vocabulary
‘Twas disaster to which he was prone
Time to think of a way to combat that
To teach himself in a productive
Ever-constructive way
So he headed for the hill once more
In the background all you could see
Was his perplexed mother standing with her arms folded
At the front door