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The Quest for Truth

1 Leave a comment on verse 1 0 Caught the bus into town, walked to Tara Street station,
And got on the DART with acute trepidation.
Hopped off at Dun Laoghaire and boarded the ferry,
And had a few pints until settled and merry.
To the cold railway station in bleak Holyhead,
Where a seat in a carriage became my sweet bed.
Awoke then in Euston and delved underground
To Victoria Station and trains Dover-bound.
When I got to the Channel, ‘twas not journey’s end,
As I made the short crossing to the port of Ostend.
Another train beckoned to Frankfurt-am-Main,
Where I turned my face eastwards, while crossing the Rhine.
Berlin and Warsaw, I watched them go by,
As the dark clouds of winter leered down from the sky.
In Minsk came the snow and the tracks changed their gauge,
But in Moscow I felt that I’d done the first stage.
I’m sure I was shadowed wherever I went,
But I boarded the long, scarlet train to Tashkent.
Three days of plain train food I barely survived,
But the coldness was cutting, the day I arrived.
I purchased some furs and a big, stubborn camel,
Though my chattering teeth nearly lost their enamel.
Then my new friend and I did most gingerly push
O’er the sheer mountain tracks of the north Hindu Kush.
Several weeks later we entered Kashmir
And I knew that the end of my quest was quite near.
We swam o’er the Indus and came to a mountain,
At the bottom of which lay a strange golden fountain.
I climbed up the slope in the rarefied air,
Till I came on an old man astride a small chair.
His nails were feet long, his expression was stony,
His beard was unkempt and his ribcage was bony.
He wore but a loincloth in dreadful condition
And he sat on the chair in the lotus position.
I gave a small cough and he opened his eyes,
And he looked at my soiled Shelbourne shirt in surprise.
“What is your question?” he asked me quite slowly
In a willowy voice, both suspicious and holy.
“Oh, Wise One!” I answered, “I’ve travelled so far,
All the way from Drumcondra and Tolka Park’s bar.
I pray you consider the words that I speak,
And show me the way to the truth that I seek.
Will Shels keep their title? Will Bohs win it back?
Will Jayo stay injury free in attack?
When will he notch up his first Shelbourne hat trick?
Will the partnership bloom between him and Fitzpatrick?
Can Dolan stop whinging and galvanise Cork?
How soon before Bucko must take the long walk?
Will Derry improve after their close escape?
Can Reynolds lick Waaaaaterford back into shape?
Can Longford assemble a much stronger squad?
Do Pat’s really have dispensation from God?
What of Dublin City? Do you think they’ll do well?
Who’ll be promoted? Oh, Holy Man, tell!”
The old man looked stern and his eyes burned like coal,
And they seemed to be burrowing into my soul.
For an age, not a minuscule movement he made,
Save the flicker of lips as he earnestly prayed.
And then he gazed down to the valley below,
And shrugged very slightly and said, “I dunno.”

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Source: http://footballpoets.org/poems/the-quest-for-truth/