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Once upon a time, he’d been a man of great renown,
Well regarded and respected by the people of the town.
Successful in all walks of life, admired by the throng,
Until, as often happens, things went desperately wrong.
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His businesses went pear-shaped and the house was repossessed.
After all the glory days, he really was distressed.
The urgent problem to be solved was his accommodation,
Although he really wasn’t bothered by location.
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He moved in with his sister in the suburb of Drumcondra,
The first step on the road to life as a perpetual wand’rer.
His brother up in Phibsboro did put him up as well,
Though constant niggling friction did make both their lives a hell.
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He found a plush apartment down in leafy Dublin Four,
With horses in the stable, fast behind the bolted door.
It seemed that he had conquered all his misery and pain,
But the landlord called and he was forced to hit the road again.
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He found a squalid little flat beside the airport road,
Twould be quite hard to find a more disreputable abode,
The arrogance soon disappeared, replaced by disillusion,
For regaining his proud stature was a serious delusion.
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But still he dreamt and conjured up a bold and vibrant plan
To turn him once again into a proud home-owning man.
He’d buy some land out in the west, where prices weren’t preclusive,
And build a mansion on the site, impressive and exclusive.
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And so he toiled and scrimped and saved to stump up all the money
To bring this wretched nomad to the land of milk and honey.
He moved in with his sister in an effort to save cash,
Though many warned his venture was both hazardous and rash.
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His dreams were just and honourable, ‘twas not a crime to think ‘em,
The problem was expenditure did far outstrip his income.
He caused a lot of problems with his boisterous behaviour,
Till eventually his sister would not play the role of saviour.
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So he moved in with his cousin on a temporary basis,
A worn-out hovel in the most inelegant of places.
Yet still he kept on dreaming of his fast-receding mansion,
With Gothic spires and marble halls and much room for expansion.
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Eventually, inevitably, his welcome was outstayed,
And little cousin turfed him out when tensions were displayed.
And now he’s back out on the streets as Autumn closes in,
Fumbling with threadbare gloves through every rubbish bin.
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His mansion out in Tallaght lies half-built through lack of lolly,
A modern-day example of a mediaeval folly,
An outcast of society, no place to lay his head,
And everybody wonders if one day he’ll wake up dead.