Quare Times

The craic
And quare times
With those quare fellas
With the slabbers and the ganches
With the scitters and the poor craters boggin with booze
And yellow-stained fingers, as the smoked-earth soily smell of the reaper slowly creeps in:
Each time, a little more time at the end sacrificed upon the alter; each time, the ominous banshee wail getting closer and closer;
Each time, a present gaining momentum until today crashes into tomorrow
And all those quare times sink deep down into the graveyard
Of old bittersweet memories
Shrouded in the mist–
Eyed mourning
Of one