| Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy
|
| Thank Christ I’m not your enemy
|
| There’s no struggler loves ya more than me
|
| Oh, Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy
|
| Margaret ground against her knuckles
|
| To hold her temper at her teeth
|
| Funerals are triggers in an Irish family
|
| And daddy was a lion
|
| But he also was a louse
|
| She swallowed twice to
|
| Clear the bile from her mouth
|
| The house, awash with sycophants
|
| Instantly enshrined
|
| The parish priest, the butcher’s boy
|
| The football player’s wife
|
| All busy painting angel wings
|
| Complicit in the lie
|
| That’s the way we Irish do it when we die
|
| Riddles wrapped in rosary
|
| Clover grenades
|
| Fools who suffer mightily
|
| As our high Saint Sinead
|
| We celebrate our loneliness
|
| Our combustible rage
|
| «He made us this way»
|
| Not that Margaret wasn’t her own complicated layer cake
|
| Educator/activist —
|
| Republican gone straight
|
| Traded Weather Underground
|
| For some peacetime in the shade
|
| But in her heart of hearts
|
| She is as she was made
|
| When she shaved her head
|
| At Trinity and toured BDSM
|
| Clinical, athletic sex —
|
| Detached, competitive
|
| The discipline appealed to her
|
| The flogging and the rules
|
| But the emptiness roared back when she was through
|
| A missile wrapped in rosary
|
| A clover grenade
|
| Fools were suffered mightily
|
| She shot sharp like Sinead
|
| And bristled at her loneliness
|
| Her combustible rage
|
| «They made me this way»
|
| Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy
|
| Thank Christ I’m not your enemy
|
| There’s no struggler lovers ya more than me
|
| Oh, Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy
|
| Margaret learned to make her fate
|
| When Uncle James lisped with a wink
|
| «If you’re not tall enough to touch the bar
|
| You’re not tall enough to drink!»
|
| She jumped and smacked it with her palm
|
| The day that she turned six;
|
| She’s wrestled Jameson’s and Guinness ever since
|
| (And tonight she’s losing
|
| Tonight she’s getting her ass kicked)
|
| My missile wrapped in rosary
|
| My clover grenade
|
| Fools picked apart her sanity
|
| She collapsed like Sinead
|
| Encircled in her loneliness
|
| Her combustible rage
|
| «Who made me this way?»
|
| Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy
|
| Thank Christ I’m not your enemy
|
| There’s no struggler loves ya more than me
|
| Oh, Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy
|
| Oh, Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy
|
| Oh, Margaret Reed O' Shaughnessy |