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Brendan Behan And before the drink took him, he had too much to say - his writing chock full of people as real as they were imagined. And having too much to say, he filled his throat too often from the glass of liquid thought, to slow the anger and the pain. No-one stops to listen now, though I'm hearing the ghosts of his words filter through this feeble night, still rich with bitterness and stout. And after the wake, the borstal boy took confession of an Irish Rebel; the hostage and the quare fellow listened in, lifted their glasses and toasted the author as he took one last encore.
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