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Arlene of the Sorrows
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Real times Arlene rode out,
One dark night,
True to form,
On a steed of white,
Her followers,
All rank and file,
Set off to slay,
A fabled crocodile,
Some said it lived,
In Belfast town,
Others swore it lived,
In County Down,
Across the land,
She did trot,
Busy, busy,
With her plot,
But POLES were,
All that Arlene heard,
That snappy croc,
No longer cared,
For Arlene’s ears,
Were filled with smoke,
Her counting beans,
Were just a joke,
And she trotted,
Day and night,
Hoping croc would,
Take a bite,
And though she may,
Just fear its nip,
The Croc knows,
its sharp teeth might slip,
For it never goes,
Away, you know,
It’s on every road sign,
High or low,
So poor Arlene knows
not, how to dismount,
And realise that in Norn Iron,
All cultures count,
From Flag to Steed,
And Sword to Pen,
The overfill of the heart,
Spills from the mouths of Men.
