The Butcher’s Kingdom

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.