Tiocfaidh ar la! She screams Clenched fist raised towards the wooden panels of the overhead Tiocfaidh ar la! She howls again Angry voice straining to be heard Over the heavy beating of raging drums The metallic squeals of the dancing steel stringed guitar The steady droning of electric pipes And the lyrical growling of the pissed off bard Tiocfaidh ar la! She shrieks a third time Black Guinness in her hand Tan foam slopping from her drunken glass Onto a once incandescent hardwood floor I observe as the dim ballroom lights Trace the ebony boundaries Of the intricate Celtic cross Permanently sketched into the back Of her pale freckled shoulder Her long red hair a stormy blood soaked sea While it rippled in the air As she bounced her head in badly kept time Again she cries Tiocfaidh ar la! "Our day will come" The tongue of a green speckled section of dirt That has not borne the weight of her ancestors In almost two hundred years Again the darkened fingers of the skyward lights Caress the twists and curves of her tattoo She jumps in a curve right arm towards the crowd And the illumination reveals the hypocrisy Painted on her left shoulder By a needle bearing skin graffiti artist And the light bends around the crimson dyed skin Forming an encircled five pointed star. Unexpectedly, she catapults her half empty Plastic cup of slate coloured stout Towards the electrified stage And surges forward into the crowd Elbows flying in a bloody ritualistic dance And disappears from my alcohol hazed vision