Pub Pilgrimage Poem by Francie Lynch

I'm making a pub pilgrimage,
A malted Mecca trip;
I'm leaving all I love at home
Crusading for saintship.
I'll be alone with all my thoughts,
It's what needs to be done
To keep the demons off.

My altar's elbow worn,
The finest oaken wood;
I'll climb the stairs on knees,
Hear bells, raise cups of cheer.

Publicans meet me on the steps,
On Sundays by the side;
This trip of three thousand miles
May kill should I survive.

There's games of chance,
Some romance,
With songs and several fools;
It has trappings of Canterbury
In pubs all called O'Tooles.

There's Highland mead,
And broken bread,
With harps from inner rooms,
I'll have dispirited spirits
With revelry inside the tombs.

My cave awaits on my return,
It's dark and hard and cold;
But I know the light's within my sight,
If I move this granite stone.
I'll bring with me a scapula
To make those visions stop,
The relics that I sought,
Those demons of a sot.