'So anyway, I've taken a scunner
to the whole scene entirely. Not
much future being a rear-gunner
in a Belfast milkfloat. I've got
sick sore tired of it altogether,
of all sides' bigotry, and whether
our Provies fighting with our Sticks
does anything for Catholics
I'd question. And so, should I rather
have kept thick with the girls who pour
at shift-ends out of Gallaghers or
the dinghy-factory, in a lather
of "How's-about-yous?" clicking bags
arm-in-arm as they hoke for fags?'

From Belfast now, where like a flame on
ruins a wild vitality
dances - whoever you'd lay blame on
...