Drinking absinthe the color green,
snuck from Ireland in a bag unseen.
Dreams of faeries in my green bean patch,
chasing leprechauns I never can catch.
Into a cave, where St. Patrick sat,
on a rock, stroking an old fuzzy cat.
"What's up, Pat!" I said with a slur.
"You know" He said "Drink is not your cure."
"Well, Pat." I slurred. "It will work for now."
"Gotta go, I lost my bottle some how."
Back to the porch, I stumbled and crawled.
To awaken alone, with photos sprawled.
For the "Irish poem" contest
Copyright © Christopher Bunton