12 July 2012
A true Shankill woman is she,
Timed her death so perfectly.
Such a time, a time to be
Home for the Twelfth.
Put her Union Jack socks on
In the funeral home. Bygone
Years of bands and flutes and song
And drinking for your health
Swimming round her safe and sound,
Calm and better off our ground,
No lambegs to be found
With Jesus high above.
They march, the orange down the road
A patriotic overload,
Stories of street parties told
Over cold blue lips.
Blue for the British flag,
Red sofas slightly burnt from fags
And white tablecloths and linen bags
That once swung by her hips.
Orange Lil, a heaving mass,
More British than Buckingham Palace.
Just pride in her, no hurt, no malice,
The epitome of the holiday herself.
So now she's home and laid to rest;
Her timing always was the best
Running smooth, no hitch, no mess,
Now she's home for the Twelfth.
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The Twelfth • Opuss № I