dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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a   l a w n   b e i n g   s p r i n k l e d

b y    m a r k   m u r p h y

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s quite certain
that all men should be happy in their work,
or, as we say in the business, a lawnmower’s
only as happy as the man who wields it.
Let me bring your attention, then, to the lawn,
which is being sprinkled, according to plan.
You’ll observe the absence of cats and dogs
and children, and for that matter, guests, yes,
especially guests; such a nuisance playing
croquet just before lunch, which, in fact,
as you’ve probably already guessed, won’t be
served on the lawn, but on the patio out back.
I must inform you from the outset that I am
a master of my trade, a master lawn maker,
and you would do well, the job lot of you,
to take note. My compositions are perfect.
Obviously, I urge caution and control.
No walking on the turf, please. My work
is to be admired for its strength of line,
not to be walked over by dirty great feet.
By now, you’ll notice how I’ve ironed out
its little imperfections, soothed its bumps
and clumps. It is a picture made in the best
traditions of picture making, a tour de force,
worthy of the greatest respect. Don’t question
my perspective; my desire is not to deceive
the eye, but to indulge it; the sheen, if you insist,
is plain green, herringbone flat, beyond doubt.



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