The Ulsterman is keenly aware of all that goes on over his left shoulder. His deportment is that of a knackered sailor. He wields rare arcs of coarsened vowels when meeting a would-be foe. His friends regard him as something of a comic treat, from behind a breezeblock wall. His grandfathers were able men each in their respective fields, legendary plowmen and clouts. 

Upon discovering the true nature of his birthright, he immediately takes up an imaginary post as standard bearer, sword swallower, or roving tycoon. Previously unattainable women gather to dance around the maypole, grandly converted from the rusted washing line stem. The relationship with his mother deepens, and thus he grows stronger, in spirit and in mind. His past disregarded, his future a glowing jewel; pasted.

Embrace the comic spirit
Drop dreams of grandeur
Into fetid earth and crumple
Heavy scents assail you
A youngster now to beckon
Open now to teaching
Many opportunities missed
The cake weren’t baked
Stick a wee spud in your mouth
And go buffooning
Fulfilment a funny thing
Laugh as hard
As your labours allow you
And let none put ye off
And what have ye

But anyway
Somebody’ll keep ye right