A poem by Kevin Higgins.

Not the Deliveroo riders named Tariq and Omar 
who Gemma O’Doherty is terrified will try to marry her.
Nor the taxi drivers from Togo John Waters fears will 
make him go around the place wearing a veil.
Not the Hutch Kinehan wet squad The Sunday World keeps 
telling you are coming to ruffle your dahlias.
Nor the puppets of George Soros 
Jim Corr knows, from his research, are trying to put 
a brown paper bag over his head.

But the Supreme Court Justices,
the Banking Federation chief executive, 
the Ministers past and present,
the journalists who are meant to ask them questions. 
These are the people who sign off on your life. 
They go by the secret name ‘Oireachtas Golf Society’.

And for the sake of what Saturday’s Irish Times calls stability,
you must allow such people eat in peace:
the French onion soup, the seared king scallops,
and a selection of ice creams,
all from the one big bowl. 

And if they wish to have a sex party afterwards, 
to slither across each other, pink as piglets;
such eventualities are covered  
in the terms and conditions
of the Oireachtas Golf Society.

For the sake of what The Sunday Independent calls
the national interest, such people must be let gobble 
who and what they will.

Kevin Higgins is a Galway-based poet, essayist and reviewer. He is co-organiser of ‘Over The Edge’ literary events in Galway, and has published five full collections of poems: The Boy With No Face (2005), Time Gentlemen, Please (2008), Frightening New Furniture (2010), The Ghost In The Lobby (2014), & Sex and Death at Merlin Park Hospital (2019). Follow him on Twitter @KevinHIpoet1967 or read his blog here.

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