All tilt and roll, all drop and swell,
our ferry-boat, the Friendly Hooker.
We rolled with her, on our tricksy voyage,
from Inis Oirr to the Cliffs of Moher.

We queased along on the heaving sea,
our small craft pausing, weirdly,
shifting, unsteady, before the rock,
an Breannach Mór, that rose straight up

out of the water, cliff-high, austere,
puffin-bespangled, kittiwake-festooned.
We gripped the rails by the prow,
and dipped and rose, dipped and bowed,

and ducked our heads and were dive-bombed,
by harpy-sirens, all screech and guano
all shit and fooster, while we clung on
grimly, half expecting then,

Manannán Mac Lir, purple with fury,
seaweed bespattered, hissing and roaring,
to erupt from the deeps, his fierce Atlantic,
and clutch our barque in his giant fist,
and crush us there, to sea-shale, schist.

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