(July 4,1950 / Flint, Michigan)

Emigrant Song

I fergot to take me medicine
I fergot to say me prayers
I fergot the valuable lessons
that let me live this far

I stand at the stoop
of Lough Veagh
toe sticking in the stirrup
of humbled humility

Was it thus for the poets
for half of an hour
was the buzz in the bone
so different from these

Does every Irishman suffer
from associating with his betters
What a mess we make
when we pack up and leave

Run away, run away
become something unknown
to oneself, expecting
therefore the hurting to stop

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Comments (1)

I especially like this; run away, run away, become something unknown to one- self, expecting the hurting to stop. I think we all wish at times that we could be far enough away from ourselves that the hurting would stop, but I discovered a long time ago, there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.....