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Receding lines, receding hair
Does not mean grey matters there
For within that silver tressed temple
Lurks a neocortex lán go barr with higher theses
Not just of why, when, where or how
But also a rectitude that’s finely honed
That reaches out from Erin’s shores
And spreads itself across the globe
Taking note of plights of hunger
Communities fed by cruel disruption
Seeing what‘s behind the lines
Yet gan dearmad a dhéanamh
ar ár four corners
North to South and East to West
He’ll stand beside us and will not rest
Till we once more stand up erect
And will not cower to speculator pressures
That robs us of our rites of passage
To own a hearth and stool and all
And not to be out on the roadside
Or sent away to foreign shores
Unless we want to, that’s for sure!
A Uachtaráin táim an-bhródúil
Seas suas erect ar son na ndaoine
Comhghairdeas a hUachtarán.
MGM 28 October 2011.
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