Doggerel, Dogma, the Dagda and Dan
all sat around by the burning trash can,
warming their topics and firing their wits,
talking of taming the wild hypocrites.
Doggerel in his nonsensical way
spoke of confusion and shadings of grey;
Dogma spun grey into stark white and black,
stated his case and then showed them his back.
Dagda the wise spoke of salmon and stars --
Doggerel asked him to hum a few bars,
this was a most unfamiliar tune;
"Faith!" uttered Dogma, "You'll bring us to rune."
Stout Irish Dan, with a Guinness or three,
called for his comrades to live and let be;
"'Tis too feckin' cold to expect me to think,"
said Dan, "screw the lot an' I'll drown in me dhrink."
Doggerel, Dogma, the Dagda and Dan
each knew the best for the future of man;
as the stars wheeled, these proponents of right
all bedded down in the park for the night.
