Long Irishman Poems
Long Irishman Poems. Below are the most popular long Irishman by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Irishman poems by poem length and keyword.
Three Irishmen by a window in stare
At a building just over there
From their heads their eyes pop
Their mouths all agog
So close they all are to swear
"Would you look at that!" the first Irishman says
"I've never seen this in all my days"
The Methodist Pastor so near
Into the building disappears
"I don't think this is the place where he prays"
No sooner are the words from his lips
When a Rabbi appears from the slips
With a quick look around
He disappears without sound
From his cassock, they see is a whip
Lost for words so agape they now see
Their Catholic Priest in front of them three
With a knock on the door
Like he's done this before
Appears not a total mystery
"Ah, now dat's sad." says the third Irishman
"As usual they've allowed him to go in
"One of da girls must have died"
It's why they let him inside
Be Jesus, it's a brothel, he's never to sin
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/humour-7.php
Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman
Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."
Though semitic thru and thru
yours truly (me) dons guise of being Irish
trumpeting hoople linked with
the folklore and culture of Emerald Isle
juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2024 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull
o' Eire rush deuce cent)
aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -
good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent
scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet
ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed
stitch of truth.
Happy Birthday Daddy
Well tomorrow is your birthday
It's been a long, long time
I was 21 when you left
Your Canadian's age younger than mine
She hasn't lost her humor
And can yet sooth a tearful soul
With her unexpected wisdom
She is so much like you we know
You suffered and I remember
And still recall you there
Gentle, and still humorous.
While deep grieving you did bear
You were to the opinion of others
Loving and so kind
Although you saw their atrosities
You pretended to be blind
I so miss your vocals and harmonica
You so skillfully entertained
A sailor, a soldier, a patriot
You stood tall in the face of pain
How enchanting and romantic was your playful way
I miss your presence, Daddy
That lite up the dismal day
I recall how you scorned judgement
And how you accepted all
As they were created
You overlooked many a mistake and flaw
The Whitehead is still breathing
Your personality
She is the rock we younger lean on
To capture your memory
The Scotsman well you know quite well
She's made it and you can be proud
Because she forged her own path as you did
She never followed the crowd
And your blood flows through these veins of mine
Although no eye can see
And 'tis proud I am the Irishman
A reflection of your father's eccentricity
Feb. 13, 2016
Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman
Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."
Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2021 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)
aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -
good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent
scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet
ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!
Matthew O' Harris Ease A "FAKE" Irishman
Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)
aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent
without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -
good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment
eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent
scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment
secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet
ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent
gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth!
The Totem ©
The totem speaks of the tribe’s history, lore,
deeds of courage
Animals, fish and gods
carved in reverence,
from a fallen tree hundreds of years old,
living wood, with a face, a fish,
a bear, a bird marching down it’s trunk,
a seemingly random sprinkle of
obelisks in a circle,
tells of incredible faith true enough
to move tons of stone
Totems today, statuary in the front garden,
wooden rooster atop the mail box,
the weather vane dressed in
golden green patina.
Carvings of flowers,
frolicking baby squirrels and
rabbits on a sign at the front door,
A mural brushed upon a barn wall,
the flag of a beloved country,
the lone star of a beloved state,
the wind chimes of dolphins, stars, frogs, and spoons
capturing the breeze,
singing a song of welcome
Tribes today paint their vehicles in much the same way
that the People painted their sturdy, brave little horses
before a battle
Circles of paint about the eyes for truer vision,
hand prints on shoulder and flank to ward off the spear,
ornaments braided into mane and tail
to celebrate victory
Bumper stickers, magnetic ribbons,
all totems to tell members
of other tribes what is believed in,
what the tribe stands for;
support this, hate that,
down with this, up with that
proud to be a redneck,
a woman,
a boater,
a parent,
a fisherman,
a politician,
a farmer,
a dancer,
a soldier,
an Aggie,
a sailor,
an Irishman,
a lover of guns.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
Cecil's dad was a ventriloquist,
His dummy was named Pat,
He was an Irishman,
A humorous one at that,
Cecil's dad and Pat
Were an excellent team,
Dad would not let Pat,
Mutter anything obscene.
Cecil's dad tried very hard,
To teach Pat how to say
Words beginning with the letter S
After months of practice,
He had to give that idea away,
Which pleased Cecil immensely,
Cecil wasn't fond of Pat
He disliked the puppet intensely.
Poor Cecil had a stutter,
He had suffered with for years,
Which made him feel different,
From most of his Peers,
Especially Pat
Who was his Father's pet,
But Cecil could clearly say
A bottle of beer,
Words that neither Dad nor Pat
Had the hang of yet,
This amused young Cecil,
And filled this boy with glee,
Because Dad's precious dummy,
No better than he,
Was not Cecil's brother,
Or part of their family tree
Cecil taunted his Father,
Every day of the year,
Pointing to Pat the Puppet
And said Father dear,
Can I listen one more time,
And please say it nice and clear,
Ask that dressed up
Block of wood to say,
A BOTTLE OF BEER
Three Irishmen by a window in stare
At a building just over there
From their heads their eyes pop
Their mouths all agog
So close they all are to swear
"Would you look at that!" the first Irishman says
"I've never seen this in all my days"
The Methodist Pastor so near
Into the building disappears
"I don't think this is the place where he prays"
No sooner are the words from his lips
When a Rabbi appears from the slips
With a quick look around
He disappears without sound
From his cassock, they see is a whip
Lost for words so agape they now see
Their Catholic Priest in front of them three
With a knock on the door
Like he's done this before
Appears not a total mystery
"Ah, now dat's sad." says the third Irishman
"As usual they've allowed him to go in
"One of da girls must have died"
It's why they let him inside
Be Jesus, it's a brothel, he's never to sin
Now the Church Heads have finally disclosed
That their clergy's have been so exposed
No more their visitation
No more their titillation
That this place of ill repute's now closed
Johnny's just an American guy
a young American guy who wonders why
People sometimes look at him funny
though it's nothing to do with love or money
Johnny, you see, is a medical rarity
though he seeks neither favors nor charity
It seems that his skin color's subject to change
as Earth's two orbs through the sky roam and range
At three stars, he starts turning dark as ocean's deep
but as the sun rises, Johnny's skin wakes up from its sleep
First it turns tan, then olive, then beige, almost white
He can even get sunburned in the bright noonday light.
In the park after dark, Johnny's an African American
But on the road at mid-day, he's a smiling Irishman
Folks who spot Johnny at each of these places
wonder if it's Johnny or they who mixed up his race
Johnny himself can't understand what's so confusing
he enjoys the changes, even finds them amusing
Why can't folks see that I'm like autumn's leaves on fruit trees
~ ponders the American guy named 'J. Appleseed'
St. George May not be English
By Bob Moore(c) 2016
St. George may not be English
but he’s England’s Patron Saint
St. Patrick is Saint of Ireland
but an Irishman he ain’t
St David was a Welshman
but St Andrew, not a Scot
the brother of Saint Peter
so Scottish he was not
St. Denis, Patron Saint of France
an Italian was born,
and Spain has the Virgin Mary
we celebrate that special mom
Most patron saints have helped the country
where they are now revered
to rid the population
of the things they have most feared
Legend says St Patrick
chased the snakes into the sea
whether this is true or not
remains a mystery
And did St George slay all the Dragons?
in England’s pleasant land
or is this just a story
passed down from hand to hand
These legends and these stories
are lost in myth, and history
but there are no snakes in Ireland
and in England, no dragons there be.