Don'T Get Me Irish Up
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This poem MUST be read with your best "Irish Brogue" and foot tapping cadence. "Me" parents both came from Ireland and on many a saturday night the house would be jumping with accordian music and the "gentle" pounding of Irish step dancing. Granted - Guinness and Stout had a lot to do with the merriment....
Don’t Get Me Irish Up
Me glasses were sitting a-top-a me head
the jam I was spreading was next to the bread
my knees were together but me spindly legs spread
I’m either half way in ---or out of the bed
I have to look down when brushing me teeth
and glue them in tight before chewing me meat
and as for the callous that grows wild on my feet
I find sanding them a sensual treat
Me fingers resemble cold, wintering trees
aging icicles hang from my elbows and knees
the slightest of movements puts a scent on the breeze
and to make matters worse I pee when I sneeze
Me back’s slightly bent, me forehead is wrinkled
when reading a menu, me eyes, yes – they’re crinkled
when I fall asleep they say “ the old boy’s Van Winkled”
and me stories they say are all “Blarney sprinkled”
Me slippers are worn, me legs freshly shorn
the skin of me cheeks soft as the day I was born
but when they break out the corned beef and stout
all of me parts start to dancing about
John G. Lawless
© 3/6/2017
Copyright © John Lawless | Year Posted 2017
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