The buildings of Dublin city range,
From townhouse to tenement,
From Gothic to Georgian,
From castle to Coolock,
From slum, to bum, to sitting in the sun,
Portobello, tops off, braindead, lobster red.

From Facebook to tech firms,
From tech firms to tax breaks,
From tax breaks to Airbnb to your landlord knocking on the door telling you to pack your bags,
There’s no place for scabby students anymore; eating beans on toast, arguing over politics at four in the morning with Maggot Brain blasts from an iPhone perched delicately inside a tea cup.

From Brownfield to Greenfield,
From Greenfield to Whitefield,
From Whitefield to Micheál raking up lines on a Friday evening,
Behind the scenes Christmas party,
Jim’s passed out; too many white wine spritzers.
“Do you want another bump?”
“Ehhh no. Im on an anti-conscious diet, I only ingest substances that I am completely unaware of.
I haven’t had a conscious sip of water in weeks and my skin feels amazing.”

From beyond the Pale to the Anglo-Saxon way of life,
Hyberno-English never sounded so good as when accompanied by the deep chimes of a construction site.
A suited man lowers a barrel of brick to the bottom floor,
Not knowing that the mass of the bricks exceeds his own, the man is shot sky high,
Pulley wheel pivots, and for a moment, one truly believes pigs can fly.

However, this is short lived, as upon encountering the ground, the barrel’s bottom breaks,
Returning the man back to his subservient position,
Head in the gutter, heart in the sky,
Aeormaphobia - fear of cranes,
Often experienced by the likes of those whose personality transcends the 9-5 your ‘rents wish you had,
By Danny, aged 27 still living at home with his ma sucking on chicken goujons till his mouth goes cotton.

From Meibion Glyndwr to FLNC,
Holidaying has never been so exciting,
The chance of seeing a real life Jackson Pollick, in the flesh, dressed in blood guts and cigarette butts,
Really gets my taint a tingling.
A true appreciation of the arts is hard to come by these days,
Especially when so many of us are tempted by the hedonistic lifestyle of bigger cities, brighter lights, and better rents.

Emmet Kirwan can help you reminisce, but the reality is, the bold arrow of time only goes one way,
And no amount of stock drops, face lifts, or stolen artefacts is going to change that,
This self imbued immortality will section us out of our motherly sanctuary, And leave behind an incision that cleaves communities
One day soon, the ghost of Fitzgerald will beckon an arm out,
In the form of a can of Dutch Gold and squashed box of Amber.
But nothing will ever be the same.