The middle classes are moaning again,
not blood this time but water.
Frothing at the mouth
with the thought of paying.
You knew the men who paid with their lives,
the four terrible fathers;
MacDonagh, Connolly, Ceannt and MacBride.
Did they consider the education of their sons,
their daughters dowries?
No, they were revolutionaries,
Mad Markievicz and you, hobnobbing with them,
upper class girls off to a ball.
But, you were organising long before that;
marching after the Empires coffin
with Connolly and Yeats,
casting eviction scenes onto city walls,
de-commemorating Victoria’s jubilee.
Do you think Maude that there’s a God,
who walks among the dead,
among those heroes who gave their lives?
And you, you their beautiful muse,
but a terrible mother.