I must go down to the Crawford again,
to the flowering fields and the food,
where the taties grow and the paintings flow,
where the artwork tickles the mind.
I must go taste the bread again,
the kidneys, marrow, and tart,
where banisters lead your taste astray,
and visitors walk in free.
It was Meat and Potatoes seduced me in,
the smell of paint down Opera Lane,
a butterflied leg, and seeds of the hearth,
no lonely hours within.
The children, they have their space,
one wide, wide place for play.
The boy with the Cork earring,
and BLT for tea.
And to the powers that be,
the nation’s customs, your art,
storytellers gilding the heart,
entrancing the earth’s energy.
I’ll return for the kidneys again,
for Doran’s sweet, brown sauce,
longing to lick the plate,
a persistent return that’s great.