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St George’s inn  
The corner bar  
On the corner street   
In the corner bay of this emerald.  
Tired windows,  
Shield us,   
Barricading our thoughts  
Knock, Knock!   
The pine frames  
Wheeze, contort dreams.  
Shivering by the fire.  
The bell tolls  
The old tired bell  
Strapped to the door   
Sounding, neighbour, stranger, or foe.  
They tiptoe dangerously into this hellish unknown.  
Not my neighbour,  
His shoes don’t fit.  
Looking around…  
Silence endeavors to locate  
This mans decent…..   
Not country folk,   
Not Irish blood.  
NOT LOCAL......  
Oh dear.   


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The following comments are for "St George’s Inn"
by C.Lynagh

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