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Begrimed with loathing,

senseless of the smell

of irony’s sweet perfume,

that essence of eau de Boyne,

and the Pope and King Billy,

on the same team,

he’s never heard of Louis XIV

this anachronism on speed dial.

He marches towards why,

a traveller who never arrives.

A Canute or a Cnut?

The difference is the same.

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