He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.
He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.
His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.

His name is called and there's a pause

just long enough to halt a war

tame timber wolves and trim their claws

hide diamonds in a secret drawer

He swears on his mother's life he wasn't there.

And if he was there

he swears on his mother's life it wasn't him.

And if it was him

It's New Year, 1979, at Funderland in the RDS in Dublin. 
In the cold calculation of the January air, a young girl tries to talk 

I like to stay up
and listen
when big people talking
jumbie stories

I does feel
so tingly and excited
inside me

A queen in a palace, slumped on a throne,
Surrounded by servants but all alone.
Heavy with handshakes, bunches of flowers,
jewels, crowns, grinning for hours.

All you see is outside me: my painted smile,
the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.
A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me

Back at school tomorrow.

Not tomorrow!
One more day off please.
I'm sick.
I'm not ready.
I haven't done my homework.

Toothless, she kisses
with fleshy lips
rounded, like mouth
of a bottle, all wet

She bruises your face
almost, with two
loving tree-root hands.

Well I shouldn’t’ve been playin’ really 
Only there to watch me brother
My friend fancies his friend, y’know.
Anyway they was a man short.