Emigration
By Dára Padden, Rang 5
My Dad was making a boyne coracle,
My Mum was making the tea,
My sister was packing the suitcase,
As for me, I let them be.
My Dad dropped the hammer,
My Mum burnt her hand.
My sister left her sock’s out,
Me thinking everything was grand.
My Dad got the plyers,
My Mum got the cloth.
My sister sat on the bed,
And my apple began to rot.
My Dad finished the boat,
My Mum drank her tea.
My sister found her sock
And I was sitting happily.
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