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Tipperary People Attend Dublin Pro-Life ‘Rally For Life’.

“Don’t give up! I believe in you all!
A person’s a person, no matter how small!
And you very small persons will not have to die
If you make yourselves heard! So come on, now and TRY!”

Extract from the Dr. Seuss’ 1954 classic, Horton Hears a Who!”

Residents of Co. Tipperary joined the ranks of a Pro-Life rally held in Dublin this afternoon, with the organisers of the ‘Rally for Life’ confirming the numbers of those attending / taking part at slightly over 10,000 people.

The Pro-life campaigners marched from the Garden of Remembrance in Parnell Square, down to the Customs House, in opposition to Ireland’s new abortion laws introduced in May of this year, following the referendum on the Eighth Amendment; with those assembled today calling on the present government for another referendum on abortion.

Thanks to social media, Irish people have now come to the realisation that a baby whose form is hardly visible underneath the slightest curve of a mother’s skirt, can now be cruelly crushed to death and ripped asunder; in some cases to be sold as tissue for drug testing purposes. After all, while food and beverages do not contain any aborted foetal material, they may be tastier because of it, and some cosmetics – those pretending to grant users access to that mythical fountain of youth – is most probably developed thanks to foetal skin cell testing.

Please read the poem hereunder, twice, before commenting.

Unto Us

A poem by the late great British-Irish comedian, writer, poet, playwright and actor Spike Milligan (1918 – 2002).

“Somewhere at some time
They committed themselves to me
And so, I was!
Small, but I WAS!
Tiny, in shape
Lusting to live
I hung in my pulsing cave.
Soon they knew of me
My mother – my father.
I had no say in my being
I lived on trust
And love
Tho’ I couldn’t think
Each part of me was saying
A silent ‘Wait for me
I will bring you love!’

I was taken
Blind, naked, defenceless
By the hand of one
Whose good name
Was graven on a brass plate
in Wimpole Street,*
and dropped on the sterile floor
of a foot operated plastic waste
bucket.
There was no Queen’s Counsel
To take my brief.
The cot I might have warmed
Stood in Harrod’s shop window.
When my passing was told
My father smiled.
No grief filled my empty space.
My death was celebrated
With tickets to see Danny La Rue
Who was pretending to be a woman
Like my mother was.”

* Note: Wimpole Street is an area located in the City of Westminster, Central London, England, associated with private medical practice and similar associations.

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