I once met a man who drank. Some said
they remembered when his light shone down
and called to all to sit around exchanging craic.
As they sang songs they said he'd line them up,
two in ahead so no one went without.
They said he'd quote by heart a classic
from a script. Sometimes producing pages
to show, to those he thought were in-the-know
before he'd call another round, and all
about would lift their glass to salute drinkers
from the past. But when we met I stepped back
for his hands shook—they slopped his drink—
for every two he drank he wasted one
until he settled in the flow of na gCopaleen
and it was through his pages, his light shone.