The Orange Parade (Fall 07)

The air is full of morning fog
and distant voices of beaten drums,
where on streets with cobble-stone paved
here, there comes, the orange parade.

On top of the roof, one month short of proper,
gun in hand and hair of pure copper,
like my father before me
and so on down the tree…
I’m a Fenian to the core.

I can feel the windows quaking,
which will soon be breaking
from rocks of misconception.
And here I sit,
so ill-equipped
above this traditional insurrection.

Our eyes meet, between roof and street,
down the barrel of my gun.
Before I pull…I see…a reflection of me
and strangers there are none.

Your nose is my nose, your hair…my hair.
Your skin is my skin, your stare…my stare.

The only real difference between you and I,
is the bright orange sash you wear at your side.

Where on streets where cobble-stones paved,
here, there comes, the Orange Parade.