They walked the streets where the homeless sleep:
But say nothing, all is well,
That we had a homeless crisis
No one looking could ever tell.
A future king, feted as if our own,
Forgotten our heroes past,
How fickle the hearts of Irishmen
Whose loyalties never seem to last!
The rich were met the rich and those who like them,
Man and his wife who await their crown,
What did the ghost of Liam Mellews think,
As he, on Galway, looked down?