Don'T Get Me Irish Up

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