The Road to Dublin

A series of hills make the start quite grim

Not sure I deserve the abuse from Tim

We roll into Wicklow

Ever so slow

Too late to go in the harbour swim

Mark brings news that the polo we’ll skip

Never more welcome words from his lip

But the snotgreen sea

Is calling to me

At the Forty Foot we plan our dip.

We went in at Whiterock instead 

Cold in the mist, it must be said

The Forty Foot is now a craze

Full of urchins and Dublin hoorays

Who probably wear their dry-robes to bed.

Dundalk