Flavour laid down in the bog –
less burning throat as sphagnum moss –
cut glass tumbler, pheromones,
yet mugged in tin, toothmug chin,
bristle dribble, rising waft,
vessel sense, varicose nose,
still illicit, thin bath charm,
malt at fault if backwoodsman.

Peat for warming, grate home turf,
tripe and onions, liver swell,
black and whyte, both bush and mills,
the briar tamped beneath the sign,
and craic, such çraic, the key in spell;
border north, plantation Scotch,
but here the Garda, shots at will,
and spittoon now for tar babies.