A good revolver has a handy feel.

A weight just right.

A texture cool and clean.

A man may be in rags,

His people slaves,

Yet such an instrument can match the heart

Its bitterness.

Such deeds are not done easily;

The gunsmith's art

Expects a cool nerve,

Deliberate calculation

Of time and proper place

To kill a man.

Great art is always purged of consequence.

The act absorbs all passion in itself.

The bullet leaps to find its resting place.

The moment's agony on the victim's face

Passes more swiftly than the leap of flame.

The thing is done.

Murder has been avenged.

What's yet to come,

Pogrom and burning houses,

Cannot besmirch the name

Of the Lord Mayor of Cork.

Better it were undone.

Mere murder cannot hold

The classic logic of the abstract act.

Spilt blood when cold

Cries out in passion for its own revenge,

And lesser men unhinge the gates of wrath.

December 1960