The Feast of Bloomsday
What in the Hell is this feast called Bloomsday?
The heavenly day Ulysses takes place.
Bookworms binge Joyce and sing songs and cosplay,
But some taste a spice they pretend is base.
These prigs fall fast for Joyce’s smutty ploy,
And pig out on slutty jambalaya,
But miss out on the truth in his horse of Troy,
That Leopold Bloom’s the new Messiah.
Is this secret menu hidden in code
By vast planetary conspiracy?
It’s right there in the fifteenth episode.
Welcome to Dublin’s Illuminati.
So let the prigs belch their proverbs and psalms.
You know in your gut, they’re all peeping-toms.
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A Bloomsday Annunciation
They entered Davy Byrne’s, a moral pub,
Four grannies, the Golden Girls of Bloomsday,
Nothing more than a cute little book club.
Then this Annunciation, one did say,
“Call me Mary,” she winked, “Virgin Mary.”
Sun-bright eyes, full-moon teeth, pixie haircut
Platinum Blondie like Debbie Harry.
Blessed was the fruitful curve of her butt.
I’m your Blazes Boylan, your Holy Ghost.
Come and grace my poetry recital,
Then lay back, relax, and grab your bedpost,
And I’ll strip you of your clothes, and your title.
Pray for this Immaculate Conception.
Now and at the hour of erection.
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Today’s boots-on-the-ground Bloomsday Ezraku:
In Cow Parlour off Cork Street
The blessed fruit of Circe’s avant-garde womb:
The world’s greatest reform, Boulevard Bloom.