As I was passing Dublin Gate, I met a man who dined on hate, Who supped upon a sea of song Made bitter by an ancient wrong. As I passed through a Belfast mist, I met a man who shook his fist, Who preyed upon the men of hate Who crept at night through Dublin Gate. As I was passing Cromwell Street, I met a man blown off his feet, Who scrawled in blood upon a stone: No prisoners! God will know His own! As I was passing Parliament, I met a man whose orders sent Young squaddies out upon the street To shoot at men they’d never meet. As I was passing New York State, I met a man who heaped a plate With others’ pain; who paid a fee To be a part of history. As I passed by a widow’s door I heard a cry: Dear Christ, no more! A pox upon your Dublin Gate, You Belfast mist... your men of hate.
Poem Published in the following books: A Glass Half Full