My father might be ashamed of his country,

As a tin whistle and rusty razor rattles through his brain,

With the memory of his own father and the thick smell of smoke,

Standing by the fire-place like some cruel joke,


Oh his words and actions brought me so much shame,

For why does he refuse to play my patriot game,

And is he a traitor or some patron Saint,

Who doesn’t care what colours one wishes to paint,


It is hard to know,

Because I am not him.


~ G McK

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