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Sonnet 122

122 The brotherhood of man wears quickly thin Your first ride on a crowded Dublin bus Men farting up ahead, drunk in your lap The worker’s paradise cannot be thus. I once lived six months with the working class Sharing their table, building on their site They’d hurl knives at each other when they fought Spit in the street and gamble out of spite. The women were as bad as their bad men Unwashed, unkempt, unproud, uncouth, untrue They fought each other, yelled and beat their kids My Marx and Engels, out the coup they flew! A Socialist, naïve and kind, in youth A realist I did become, in truth.