by Andy Manly
Like the tide into New York harbor they come,
these wretched Irish.
Like broken mules, slack-jawed and hollow-eyed,
they disembark, with hands held out for bread.
If only I had the guns,
I would stem this flood before
their feet ever touched this sacred land.
Those Irish bastards. They took my eye.
Now a glass badge of a great fight,
the badge of a native son,
a blue eagle crest in a field of pearl white.
It is the last thing a man sees
before he bleeds to death.
I will meet this plague
with knives,
with clubs,
with my hands if I must.
For in my kingdom, I hold sway.
In my kingdom, the Five Points.
