In Dublin's fair city where fittingly pretty
  Young people can glide through the parks,
The breeze and hair dryers fuel internal fires,
  Infernos where eyes are the sparks.

Confetti-like leaves fall on Ciara's and Steve's.
  They wave when they recognise faces.
They fleetingly meet when their two flitting feet
  Allow them to rest in quiet places.

The music of youth speaks of beauty and truth.
  They slide, swoon and sigh, and then sleep.
With the world at their feet. Or two weeks in Crete,
  Where it's too dark to look when they leap.

Some stay in their rooms as late afternoon looms,
  And evening descends from the stars.
The streetlights are on and the shoppers are gone,
  And the internal fires light up bars.

For those all alone with a deaf and dumb phone,
  Who stay in and dream of their fame,
Life can still burn in an external urn.
  They don't need to feign a bright flame.

They write their life story. 'I Don't Mean To Bore Me'
  Is what Joey's calling his book
About his own days, their permanent greys,
  Persistently lacking in luck.

Each day stays the same as his hair style or name.
  It's difficult to write something new.
He could leave his head to paint the town red,
  Or at least try some almost-grey hue.

He could try some sport on a pitch, course or court,
  Throwing a ball through a hoop.
He could take up art but instead he takes part
  In an avant garde theatre group.

With a whole play to fill they mostly stand still.
  They're mainly as mute as a brick.
Joey's one word, which is just barely heard,
  Is 'tock' in response to a 'tick'.

Sometimes he blinks. He eventually thinks
  That he could do this in his room,
Or at a bus stop, or at home with a mop.
  Babies rehearse in the womb.

He's tempted to say that they should do a play
  With characters who speak, shout and dance.
With sun, bees and birds, and many more words.
  He's sick of the language of stance.

He can't help but say it when on one dark day it
  Gets so dull that somebody faints.
He says it at last and the rest of the cast
  Are pleased with the picture he paints.

It sounds quite inviting. They set about writing
  A script full of light, love and fun.
The ideas won't flow. They write what they know,
  And stick to the things that they've done.

Like standing on stages for what seems like ages
  And saying the word 'tick', sometimes 'tock'.
They could write about that, or wearing a hat,
  Or a day in the life of a clock.

So Joey says they need to get out and play.
  He's been here before and he knows
They'll need to do things before their play sings
  With beautiful highs and not lows.

He hoped that he'd find new ideas when he joined
  This theatre group he's now with.
It won't work for them, and it didn't for him,
  Or maybe just a small bit.

They could try some sport or drink gin and port
  And dance through the streets at midday,
Or start a new band and spend half a grand
  As they paint the town green over grey.

They're tempted by vices. They vote on their choices.
  A trip to the country, they choose.
A weekend away, and the whole group will stay
  In an old country house full of booze.

Their weekend is fun, coloured in by the sun.
  They talk to the hens cows and sheep.
They sing songs and drink and forget how to think,
  And see plays performed when they sleep.

On Saturday night at the end of daylight
  They go to a pub near the house.
In a warm, happy haze, one of them plays
  The piano, some waltzes by Strauss.

At one they're all gone, but their party goes on
  Back at the house until four.
Some items they break but they wait till they wake
  Before clearing the bits from the floor.

It's worse than they thought. A brush, mop and cloth
  Won't un-do the mess they've created.
The front room's been trashed. The piano is smashed.
  The decor had seemed very dated,

But they've made it worse. They look on and curse.
  They're full of regret and they're tired.
The owner arrives and they fear for their lives.
  Some improvised acting's required.

They say a mad thief brought a pick-axe and grief.
  He trashed the place looking for cash.
He spoke in loud French and emitted a stench
  Of motor-oil, gravy and hash.

He had a glass eye and they all wondered why
  He wore it as if it's an ear ring.
Their story is good but their acting's like wood.
  They're more used to standing and staring.

He tells them it's fair that they pay to repair
  The things that they tore, burnt and broke.
But they write a good play about their short stay,
  And a one-eyed French thief in a cloak.