When, following the big win- the real biggie-
uncountable zeros after his name-
he stands his friends an endless reservoir of stout
and decrees every church
a twenty four hour shebeen
abolishes retching and reflux and coughs
plugs the ancient flow of anal bleeding
decrees the removal of sleep from the brain
and promises the people that none
need ever stop drinking and smoking and snorting
and gambling and chomping ever again
Ten-million-year weekend begins.
The paralytic age.
Then. Something mighty
cracks in the head of the Chieftain of Chiefs,
an unquenchable surging of rage through the blood
that cometary rage at being
not the only God
and off he goes to war against the world
grinding armies to dust
hurling mountains into the sun
New York falls to him
and then the whole of Scotland
then Bangkok, Bhutan, Yakutsk.
Final – his incredible one-man stampede,
two legs tied behind, routing
Skibbereen and Stalingrad, the Black and Tans, the Vietcong
Every last man jack of ‘em.
Bored and still mad up for it,
he announces a gang resurrection
bringing back to the mainland of clay and despair
Georgie Best and Michael Collins,
Christy Ring and Elvis.
One by one, in headlines everywhere,
he completely defeats them
at soccer and handball and hurling and dancing
at head-the-ball, bare knuckle fisting, cock-fights
and freaking out women.
Whereupon he finally declares himself
the Permanent Champion Of Everything.
Then, to end and begin, outstretched,
he assumpts himself live onstage in Moonshine Stadium
as he bends to show off
a shining New Ireland
emerging from his asshole like an egg