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Our breath obscures the window of our vision,
The windows of the Princess bus from Cashel
Bringing the babbling housewives to Clonmel;
And outside men's hard toil is frozen dead.
Too much of wasted breath,
Words, statements, stories,
Lunchtime boasting in the pub
Of houses, clubs, THE CAR, and how I clinched the deal.
And how to win the Test, the Rugger trials,
And why Mike Hawthorn died.
Why must we spew such rotting streams of words
That only form a vapour and condense
In opaque drops upon the glass
To dull our vision. The more we talk
The blinder we. Our own small world
No bigger than a single-decker bus
Hemmed in along the narrow lane
We've chosen for our life -
Between our Cashels and Clonmels.
