The Cage

Lyrics
My father, the least happy Man I have known. His face Retained the pallor Of those who work underground: The lost years in Brooklyn Listening to a subway Shudder the earth But a traditional Irishman Who (released from his grille In the Clarke St. I.R.T) Drank neat whiskey, until He reached the only element He felt at home in Any longer: brute oblivion And yet picked himself Up, most mornings To march down the street Extending his smile To all sides of the good (non-negro) neighbourhood Belled by St Teresa's church When he came back We walked together Across fields of Garvaghey To see hawthorn on the summer Hedges, as though He had never left; A bend of the road Which still sheltered Primroses. But we Did not smile in The shared complicity Of a dream, for when Weary Odysseus returns Telemachus must leave Often as I descend Into subway or underground I see his bald head behind The bars of the small booth; The mark of an old car Accident beating on his Ghostly forehead
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Credits
- Writers
- John Montague