N 11
Heading down the N11
Arrangements made, must meet at seven,
Traffics heavy on the way,
Worst of all’s that stretch at Bray.
The Sugar Loaf , that tower of rock,
Standing guard at Kilmacanogue.
Speeding on I pass the Glen,
Where hippies tried to save the trees,
The roads much wider now than then,
But now the Countrys on its knees.
Further on I glimpse the sea,
I see what state she’s in today,
The wind is coming from the West,
And so I’m off to Brittas Bay.
Past Wicklow Town the Motorway ends,
The road becomes a string of bends.
Of all the trip this is the worst,
And not a place for tyres to burst.
Some flowers are placed which loved ones tend,
where some poor soul has met their end.
I see a sign, it says Jack Whites,
And now my journeys end’s in sight.
I meet my pals, set up my gear,
I’m glad I’m fishing,
Not on the Beer.
But all too soon it’s at an end,
And I must face that string of Bends.
An hour it takes me to get home,
They’re all in bed, and I’m alone.
I pour myself a c...
[ Continued ]