I am writting just to say I won’t be home
There is something that I have to do
And I must do alone
Do you write to your ma every time you have a wank?
It would take a west brit cunt like you to desecrate a thread in honour of Patrick Pearse
Did they teach you that song in Leicester you fucking blowjob? 
They took me & they put me in this lonely prison cell
Tonight my thoughts are with you as I bid my last farewell
Mother you had me, I didn’t have you
Unreal.
I know I posted this on the poetry thread before but…
I do not grudge them; Lord, I do not grudge
My two strong sons that I have seen go out
To break their strength and die, they and a few,
In bloody protest for a glorious thing.
They shall be spoken of among their people,
The generations shall remember them,
And call them blessed;
But I will speak their names to my own heart
In the long nights;
The little names that were familiar once
Round my dead hearth.
Lord, thou art hard on mothers:
We suffer in their coming and their going;
And tho’ I grudge them not, I weary, weary
Of the long sorrow — And yet I have my joy:
My sons were faithful, and they fought.
is it possible that the events of 1916 have been exaggerated ?
[I]
Little lad of the tricks,
Full well I know
That you have been in mischief:
Confess your fault truly.
I forgive you, child
Of the soft red mouth:
I will not condemn anyone
For a sin not understood.
Raise your comely head
Till I kiss your mouth:
If either of us is the better of that
I am the better of it.
There is a fragrance in your kiss
That I have not found yet
In the kisses of women
Or in the honey of their bodies.
Lad of the grey eyes,
That flush in thy cheek
Would be white with dread of me
Could you read my secrets.
He who has my secrets
Is not fit to touch you:
Is not that a pitiful thing,
Little lad of the tricks ?[/I]
How so?