Long Kesh prison.
Let's bring back Friday poetry from its holiday hiatus with this superb "there is no they" bit from Ciaran Carson:
The Powers-that-Be decreed that from the—of—the sausage rolls, for reasons
Of security, would be contracted to a different firm. They gave the prisoners no reasons.
The prisoners complained. We cannot reproduce his actual words here, since their spokesman is alleged
To be a sub-commander of a movement deemed to be illegal.
An actor spoke for him in almost-perfect lip-synch: It’s not the quality
We’re giving off about. Just that it seems they’re getting smaller. We’re talking quantity.
His ‘Belfast’ accent wasn’t West enough. Is the H in H-Block aitch or haitch?
Does it matter? What we have we hold? Our day will come? Give or take an inch?
Well, give an inch and someone takes an effing mile. Everything is in the ways
You say them. Like, the prison that we call Long Kesh is to the Powers-that-Be The Maze.
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