The poem
My father and mother, my brother and sister and I, with uncle Pat, our dour best-loved uncle, had set out that Sunday afternoon in July in his broken-down Ford
not to visit some graveyard—one died of shingles, one of fever, another's knees turned to jelly— but the brand-new roundabout at Ballygawley, the first in mid-Ulster.
Uncle Pat was telling us how the B-Specials had stopped him one night somewhere near Ballygawley and smashed his bicycle
and made him sing the Sash and curse the Pope of Rome. They held a pistol so hard against his forehead there was still the mark of an O when he got home.
I would like to know to whom Muldoon refers when he says "one died of shingles, one of fever, another's knees turned to jelly"
well, I don't know who Muldoon was referring to but I do know these German roundabouts are a blast and I've commenced to shooting.