As the hat came round I looked at my coin, at the Queen's crown, And felt myself made traitor for a quid. The beet-faced collector said it was for the kids. To protest that I was English and, I guess, Probably a Unionist if the question was pressed Held less currency in a dark pub in Kilburn Than an Irish punt at the Bank of England In the muddled mid-90s, a year or so after The release of In the Name of the Father. An usher in Dublin had sneered with laughter When I took my accent to see it; wouldn't I rather See Robert de Niro in A Bronx Tale? Of course, my courage failed. And so, trying to think of Irish children And not the killers of Irish children I flipped in my pound.