I am just what I am
Béoigidir in spirut in corp
I can trust my spontanous jam
while my make-up runs to Thorpe
Is é mo lóech, mo gille mer
Zero Eight, a wellknown haze
grown up gestures, collapsing air
máthair calls when I ablaze.
To Ogham, runes, and all Cryptoids
Nísamaltarsom friu.
Among holiday stoners and paranoids
I had to reclame my view:
Cride é, daire cnó,
ócán é, pócán dó.
(Er ist ein Herz, ein Wäldchen voller Nüsse,
Er ist jung, ich schenke ihm Küsse.)