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And Words Are All I Have
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Almost every seaside town in Ireland has one.
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This one answers to Finnegan.
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No mutt was ever more streetwise,
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just who is a soft touch,
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Finnegan makes his rounds daily.
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First to Mrs. Tyrell’s Bake Shop for a day old bun.
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If he's lucky they've remembered him
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at O’Riordan the Butcher's with a decent bone.
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Then it’s down to the rectory for a ladle full of yesterday's soup
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and a neck rub from Father Tam.
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Afternoons mean dozing on the pier,
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a sure-fire tourist draw.
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His bedraggled coat brings out the mother in everyone, it seems.
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By nightfall his belly is full.
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He knows where he can keep dry and out of the cold.
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And on frosty nights there are warm grates outside the pubs.
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But there is no master awaiting him,
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his wise wee self sleeps alone.
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If there are any heavens my mother will all by herself have one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley. It will be a heaven of robust yellow roses, with thick notched stems not prone to bending. The blooms will be embarrassingly, sinfully fragrant, the size of baseballs when fully blazing. They’ll radiate light …
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Pink Angora How wrong we can be about the things we think will save us... I walked behind them on the way home after the usual Saturday night skating at the small town's arena. He was the high school all-star, she the ice ballerina. She wore pink angora mittens, and a matching beret perched at what seemed the …
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