Upon the walls where the dark Liffey crawls,
Lies a city whose name the magpie calls.
Once fair Dublin, now wreathed in blight,
Her spirit is consumed by eternal night.
Through alleys choked with a noxious haze,
Men barter their souls in a drugged malaise.
Powdered dreams passed hand to hand,
In the shadow of ruin that stains the land.
The cobbles scream beneath boots that clash,
Fists meet flesh in a brutal thrash.
And blood, like wine, spills wantonly,
Feeding the hunger of a city’s spree.
Shattered windows, their eyes gouged blind,
Mock the ghosts that time left behind.
Once vibrant markets now hold no sway,
Their whispers lost in decay’s ballet.
Above the din, a magpie’s cry,
Lamenting a city left to die.
Its wail cuts sharp, its dirge forlorn,
For Dublin lost and dreams stillborn.
The litter drifts, like specters gray,
Through streets where light has fled away.
Each scrap a remnant, a memory torn,
Of a city’s pride, now dead, now worn.
And on lampposts bent, the black crows leer,
Dark sentinels of despair and fear.
Their wings unfurl like mourning shrouds,
Marking the graves of fleeting crowds.
And through the gloom, a clock strikes one,
Its mournful chime like a funeral drum.
No heroes rise, no savior’s hand,
Just silence grips this wretched land.
Oh, Dublin, cradle of wit and lore,
Your beauty drowned in a shadowed war.
And the magpie perched with a mournful caw,
Counts sorrows deep, both flaw by flaw
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