Poetry Found in Issue 2

I could read all the works of Joyce and Rooney 

and I still wouldn’t set foot in Dublin,

Literary works written a century apart painting a picture of the same shithole.

Dublin to me is Croke park on all ireland day,

Hill 16 a buzz with shirtless drunk men,

And the rounders bat of a prick separating me and my brother from my da,

 A Middle Aged blonde women shouting at us,

Dublin to me is the sausage rolls out of a shop’s hot food counter,

I’ll give this to Dublin,

Best sausage rolls I’ve ever had.