Paddy Murphy Is Fred Astaire

Paddy Murphy Is Fred Astaire It's six below and so much snow this January midnight. Sunday's gone and Monday's turning. Yet Paddy Murphy's stepping out, his crushed fedora all askew. He's soused again and all aglow, dancing along Fifth Avenue. Tonight he thinks he's Fred Astaire and so he's swirling in the air. He needs a partner way up there, someone pretty, someone fair. If it weren't for the music that only he can hear, Paddy would be gone by now. Tonight he's whistling, though, delighted that his fingers find the parking meter posts are an endless xylophone. Listen to him play those posts so all the world can hear Paddy's favorite tune, the jig of an ancient tippler with one last dance to go. Donal Mahoney