Cocktails, naggins, and joints—our fodder—
welcome town teenagers thirsty to get wasted
on sour grain, at a house party in LOVELY LEITRIM.

Girl from the estate stops our taxi and seizes
the sign at the border between the counties.
She laughs the whole walk back in the pitch dark

of baltic night with the purse of metal, under her arm.
A gift of a tall vase from Uncle New York gets broken.
New couples kiss, shift hands on riven couch

under cheap fairy lights. This is our Ballroom of Romance,
in the disused garage. This is our hallowed becoming!
Lough Gill peers up, tired of lewd tunes from burdened Hi-Fi.

This is our kingdom of youth—forgive us our tresspass!
Parke’s Castle frowns at us who traipse among
darkened bluebells in the forest behind the house.

We want to hold, and chat-up the fairies’ stones.
‘Let them listen to us,’ we say, touching their moss.
‘Yeah,’ those who grow here say, ‘Let them hear it.’

Let them know the shoddy stories caused by spell
of their garland lights, our dwelling, joints, and gin.