America

Made from the Irish famine, And by Mexican imports, She lies in the hearts of the local and the foreigner, As this boundless land grows potato and corn To fill plates, which is the only mercy A migrant asks for in the first instance, And there is nothing to milk, From this new land, except…

Irish

Why I want to be Irish Is not because of St Patrick’s Day When beer flows like the Liffey Through the gorges of man I don’t want to be Irish To walk on rainbows and hide my wealth On the underside of paint strips After all how can a 190 cm man Be a minature…