We borrowed the loan of Kerr's ass <br />To go to Dundalk with butter, <br />Brought him home the evening before the market <br />And exile that night in Mucker. <br /> <br />We heeled up the cart before the door, <br />We took the harness inside - <br />The straw-stuffed straddle, the broken breeching <br />With bits of bull-wire tied; <br /> <br />The winkers that had no choke-band, <br />The collar and the reins . . . <br />In Ealing Broadway, London Town <br />I name their several names <br /> <br />Until a world comes to life - <br />Morning, the silent bog, <br />And the God of imagination waking <br />In a Mucker fog.<br /><br />Patrick Kavanagh<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/kerr-s-ass/
