by Gabriel Fitzmaurice
Jimmy Nolan, grocer, typed my name,The printed word, just like it was in books;
Back then, the printed word was fame,
I’d hold it up and look, and look, and look.
He took photos, too, of weddings around here,
Anything to earn an honest bob
(A wooden leg, his walk a little queer),
He’d show the snaps to Mam -another job
Well done, he courted praise (’twas all he sought);
He wrote the local Notes and that was power,
He made the news from stories that were brought
By locals who would purchase tea and flour.
He typed us up, and every week we’d scan
Our inch of glory in The Kerryman.
