The day has come once again
to celebrate a day where,
by the end, you'll be steamin'.
As against your better judgement,
the prospect of partying keeps your mind swayed,
causing you step out into the streets
flowing with a vast parade.
You find yourself swimming
in the sea of multi-shaded green,
further than your eye has seen,
glistening with pins and sew-ons,
depicting cunning mischievous leprechauns.
But there's no finding a pot of gold—
only losing your own coin to the beers being sold.
As you enter through the boozer's arch,
this day, the seventeenth of March,
not forgetting every tradition
held up by each drunken Patron.
witnessing beside you the slap of a red-head's arse
while downing the last of your glass,
to be mistaken, receiving a slap across your face
and your mates laugh hysterically at your lack of grace.
But let us not forget the celebration of Ireland,
continuing the night swaying to the Celtic music of a local merry band,
that sounds more like a Limerick poem,
with well-crafted words as your sloshed lips stumble upon them,
butchering every verse there within.
As you then head back out in to the streets of Dublin,
and with any luck from your four-leaf clover,
you'll make it through the night without a punch-up or hangover.
