Young Man Faces Crisis On Dollymount Beach.

Looking wildly about me,

 my poor mind in shock,

in only a pair of wet togs

  I try to take stock.

Where I left my belongings,

 a neat pile on the strand,

there's nothing but air, an absence,

 an emptiness on the sand.

I stare and I swear,

 my wits far from collected,

denying the awful truth

 that must finally be accepted.

So I shout it out:

'Some dirty lousers

have stolen my trousers,

my shirt, my shoes, my stripey towel,

 my socks, the whole bloody lot!

Rot! Rot! Rot! Rot! Rot!'

Yes. I shout it out.

The beach, the dunes, even the sea,

 all seem to shake with the vibration,

and I feel a certain .... elation!

 So again I shout, but even louder:

'Some dirty lousers

have stolen my trousers,

my shirt, my shoes, my stripey towel,

 my socks, the whole bloody lot!

Rot! Rot! Rot! Rot! Rot!'

As I somehow felt it would,

 this does me so much good.

Though only fit to drown myself,

 have I suddenly .... found myself?

Yes! I'll survive this fix.

How? I leave it to the gods,

for it's a long long walk home

dressed only in scanty togs.

There'll be jeers and sneers and heckles and worse,

 but I'll brave it out,

just stride out.

 Let them laugh, let them hoot,

eyes front, face resolute.

 I'll survive. I usually do,

but, however long I live,

this.... theft I'll never forgive.

Let them ever be damned,

 let them ever be cursed,

 this I solemnly beseech

for those .... , for those

who robbed my clothes

 from Dollymount beach.