Raising his mouth from that horrible snack,

This blood-soaked shade wiped his lips clean on the

Squashed thatch of that head he had chewed up behind

Then spoke: ‘You’ve got a cheek, wee man, asking

Me to rake over the coals of a grief so desperate

That the very thought of it freezes my bones;

But if my words are to be a seed, that may

Bear the fruit of infamy for this traitor

That I gnaw, then prick up your ears,

For you shall hear me weep and gas at once.

I’ve no idea who you are, nor what business

Brings you traipsing around down here, but something

In your voice tells me that you were once from Belfast.

Know then, that I was Bobby Sands, and this

Here is Maggie Bloody Thatcher – now let me

Tell you why I am so unneighbourly.

Maybe I’ve no need to tell youse that it was her

Government that locked us up with common criminals,

Denying us political status

When there was a war on. But the cruelty of

My imprisonment you can not imagine.

When they took away our fucking clothes, we went

On the blanket; when they emptied our chamber pots

All over our fucking beds, only then did we

Start our dirty protest. The stench was appalling,

The cells were literally covered in shite,

And everywhere you looked there were flies and maggots.

It was like something out of Dante, like,

Only this was really happening, in 1979.

Through the thick pane of frosted glass