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Show Everyday The Wild Geese A-sail aboard the Occasional Morning, What I have to offer counts nothing: Two soft, dry, salt-smooth hands. I have let the sail covers, well-reefed, Rolled, fool before; but they are Only further burdens: bleak and nothing. Across the fo'castle and up on deck I have tried to count the lashed down pikes, Frayed ropes needing twine and crown; I do not think that I shall ever count The hundred men who died beneath A further distant inland Irish tree. Mother, the Hanging Tree is dying; Our only Catholic pointless Tree Is dying and your only son Is lost and bound to heathen France. 11- |