First of all, your mind.

The chimes must stop,

the drums, the horns,

as well.  Finally, the long,

the wild parade

of mummers crazed

you must spade off

the way my Daddy,

years ago, 

when I was four,

on a bright St. Patrick’s Day,

turned the soil in Mother’s garden,

cursed the British

one more time

then drove his spade,

while Mommy screamed,

through the neck

of a garden snake.

— Donal Mahoney