One night in Sligo, years ago,
When I was young and poor,
I played my whistle in the cold
Outside the chip shop door.

Benbulben’s shadow held me close,
The saintly trails were green,
The moss lay thick on standing stones,
The pubs lay in between.

I busked for pennies, silver pounds,
For chips or pints of beer,
Or else a bed in the White House Inn,
Or none, and sleep in fear.

(A German tramp with dog in tow
Would haunt the warehouse bare,
He’d trade this tale for company
Till the Laffeys broke him there).

So, on that night a murmur rose,
A crowd stood staring still,
Their faces turned to the ladies’ shop
That crowned the little hill.

And from its door the Devil strode,
A blouse upon his horn;
I prayed it came from hangers neat,
And not from one forlorn.

No cross was raised, no holy sign,
No chalk to guard the ground;
The chip shop keeper whispered low
For the Virgin’s aid profound.

He walked the street in solemn pride,
Holy-naked flesh laid bare,
His leathern bollocks swung side to side,
His eyes held secret glare.

He passed me by without a word,
Then turned beside the quay,
And vanished where the Garavogue
Runs silent to the sea.

The town resumed its evening trade,
Though hushed in look and tone,
As if the Devil, once he’d gone,
Had left the place his own.

…And, not a word of a lie, true lover.
Not a word of a lie.