This Mick On the Next Stool

This Mick on the Next Stool

	in a pub in Ireland

So this Mick on the next stool,
who's as serious as Yeats
but looks like Wilde,
stares at me, 
with eyes crossed,
sipping Guinness through the foam.
Finally he burps and says, 
"I'll bet that growth is cystic.
If it were on my nose, 
I'd light this match,
hold a straight pin over it,
then prick it. 
Poof! There'd be 
a belch of goat cheese, sure.
But what of it? 
You'd need a Q-Tip,
maybe a drop of p'roxide.
But in two weeks 
new skin would bloom
smoother than a baby's bum.
With your luck, Yank, 
it would freckle."


Donal Mahoney
Copyright © | Year Posted 2010

Poem

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