A shock result in the national
ploughing championships

"He's a Kilkenny man - I'm sure of that!"
Says Higson, broaching his pint in Tulley's -
His moustache drawing fine furrows
In the sweet grey foam -
"A big-arsed bastard too."
Outside, in Tullow Street,
The twilight's just beginning to get up steam.
"Never seen him before - not once," says somebody.
"Bloody strange thing," Higson insists,
patting his pockets till he hears
the comforting rattle of his box of Swans,
"coming to Carlow just the once
and winning the damn thing."
"Was there not another case
back in the Fifties?" Tommy Forgan says.
"The Fifties!" - Higson spits towards the fire
and watches the gobbet sizzle on the grate.