I never met his speakeasy uncle who left us all behind
but I played O’Neill’s lament and ran poor racehorses
I didn’t know him when I loved Montague’s grand niece
Walking from the broad road up over Garvaghey hill
Why should I feel this uagineas in my heart?
For a man who was Godfather to a stranger
Who as I, hungered for the smell of horse sweat
and tired with the feel of sticky rosin