Half A Stout, Please!
So let’s imagine Bloom
the Mister one
counting the heads at the funeral
like an Ulysses from the abyss of a dawn
his voice would whisper
the secret joy of being alive
among half-naked napes
and certainly nowadays
it’d be a Guinness too, right HIM
at a pub’s counter
while cheering his centuries of good fortune
among the dead
on the dark wings of a beer tune.