Took it all in his stride, the good with the bad
Equal measure
Head down, shoulders slumped, looking to hide
How was this lad ever going to turn out to be one of Ireland’s literary treasures
A poet with nothing better to do with his time other than write something that managed to make the right kind of mark
Cause a few sparks, a few young and unanticipated literary heads to come looking for more
Might get to a stage where there were going to be people claiming to be ‘fans’ knocking on his front door
The writing was good, not yet great, all of that would have to wait
Still only thirty, relatively young when it came to a writer
Still learning as he went along, ’til the punctuation made perfect sense, felt that little bit tighter
Something he’d wanted to do since he was a child of nine, remembers his mother tell him he had what it took to impress the masses, just so long as he kept his overactive head down, continued attending his English classes
A great mark in the end even if he dove right in when it came to the entirely wrong question, would have been in far hotter water if it wasn’t for a nearby informant’s suggestion
A fail in maths, quite extraordinary owing to the fact his father was a well known accountant, just that each and every equation whizzing about his head didn’t seem to fit
This is it, good at one thing, poor at another, isn’t that just the way of the world
Really rather absurd for everyone to expect him to take to the family business
When he was far too young, far more interested in creating a distance
Possibly made to make ferociously funny anecdotes, the likes, not sit in some hollowed-out office alongside a mathematical genius straight out of school, names Mike
So it seems writing’s his thing and on he will write ’til he receives a rapturous applause, while some jaded, unknown musician reads his writing, decides to sing
All about the rapturous applause right now

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