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.