CASTLES N' SLUGS.

Motels, Hotels, it all gets repetitive after a while.

so we threw a castle into the mix,
tossed a bunch of heavy ospreys into the back of our Irish rental, & made sure to acknowledge "The Luck Of The Irish" each time we almost crashed it into a stone wall.

Heading south from Belfast.

We found ourselves amongst green moss, drunk political gingers, & countless heads of cattle mid street; 

You would think prince charming would have greeted us,

but instead we spotted a middle-aged dairy-farming couple rockin' a pair of muddy high waters walking towards us. 

(I've been greeted with kind words, kisses, and keys but never a 
  tin crafts of goats milk by candlelight.)

we held hands. 

 struck matches.

 sipped wine from goblets.

drew ourselves milk baths. 

prepared a feast. 

foretold futures.

-- 

we even invited the stairwell slugs to share the evening.

To all the weathered men who deemed me "princess..." 

I would much rather be the woodworking man who owned the place, 

somewhere in spain getting his hands dirty, 

only retiring North to Ireland when he fucking feels like it. 

"I assume when he wants to wash the dirt off in the rain."