The Gael of No Color.


Sing of the glory of the Gael of no color.

The Gael who is neither his own nor anothers.

Spin me a riddle to make sense of his pride,

To unravel the riddle that hides in plain sight

Sing of the glory of our great Celtic tribe.

Last lonely bastion of the savage, the wild.

Our heroes are slain by the hand of Content

Who says “Bury ’em quick, there’s money to spend”.

Our songs go unsounded in the halls of our fathers.

We prance to the drum of the slick-headed foreigner.

He smiles as we grind saying “Don’t you look well”.

But he’s only a salesman with trinkets to sell.

“Don’t tread on the Celt” say the men of the west.

“He knows his own worth and he’ll gut you in jest”.

But Paddy don’t bother with this or with that

‘Til it comes in his view or it steps on his land.

The wolfhound’s been neutered and we’ve buried the stag

And we don’t venture forth to appease the Old Hag.

We don’t even worship the Mountain no more,

And the oak tree ain’t nothing to us but fine floors.

These fat racketeers dealt us our hand.

They built roads and bridges but buried the land.

They say “Don’t you look sharp wrapped up our flag”.

But I look like I feel in my homespun old rags. 

The shades of our heroes surround me in sleep.

They don’t speak a damn word, why waste breath on sheep?

In the sight of my Fathers I can’t sleep for shame.

They lend us no valor, just scorn from the grave.

Some days I’d rather be gutted and hung from a rock,

Beset on all sides by men of small stock.

Savage and mad in the sight of Wild Gods

Who don’t pay us no mind except to witness our fall.

Sing of the glory of the Gael of no color.

Who neither belongs amongst his own nor anothers.

Now we don’t even worship the Mountain no more

And the oak tree’s been felled, but it makes a fine floor.

Megas Begadonos

June 8th, 2015. Dublin.



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