It kills me Paddy if I tell the truth. Have another one. I know, I know, no good for me. Then again, I have a tumor the size of Ecuador. Or was that you? Hard to tell in uncertain times.

Don’t tell me, you have a kid? Me too, I think. What would it matter? My tumor and all. Were you listening? Neither was I.

How is Dublin? Rapscallions and Fenians still? My round was it? Takes the Bleeding Mother’s sight to bring you to the till point. How fortuitous that we land upon her, oh blessed savior of sins.

Yet what do you or I repent? A distasteful passing of wind, the sound of our own voice? Have you stopped talking? Listening never suited you either.

Fair enough, take one on me. I’ll pour my blood upon the soil of a nation that doesn’t allow it. Then again, they did grant me tax allowance.

I’d fight in a war if I could. Save the Syrians, bring peace to Israel if only I’d shift  this bloody tumor. But it was you that had the damn thing, was it not?

I tell you, Ireland’s getting smaller. Turn it on it’s own backside and it would only view a good seeing to from it’s own arse. What does that mean Pad? Hidden inside your Guinness no doubt. I’ve nothing hidden in mine. But that’s probably half your problem. Always the mystic.



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