We're jottin' down our poems, me boys
We're jottin' down our poem
From old Bombay to Galway Bay
We're jottin' down our poems
All wannabe Byrons just step aside
We're the best bards on land and foam, Aye!
We're jottin' dowm our poems, me boys
We're jottin' down our poems
While the brisket was slow cooking we went to the pub
Their brisket was already done, that was the rub.
I said to my woman, can I have a bit of this grub?
That was my biggest mistake, it was a giant flub.
Although she said yes, she was pouting in a bit.
I recognized the sign of her bad side, she can be a chit.
grabbed the biggest beer I could find, and she threw a fit.
Knew now that the rest of my night was going to be full of grit.
He is a poser Irish I said. Freckles probably painted on.
I don’t think so replied my great great aunt Dawn.
I bet he’s not got a drop of Irish blood, I said.
When I learned the truth my face turned red.
His grandpa was a McDoogle on one side of the tree.
The other grandpa was christened Sean McCaffrey.
His grandmother had been a Hennessey on his mom’s side.
McDonald was the name of his paternal grandpa’s bride.
I stand corrected I said. Please don’t say anything to him.
Why in the world did they name him something plain like Jim?
Top of the morning to you, James said, as he came into view.
I served him some shepherd pie, and some Irish beef stew.
St Patrick’s day cat wore a tam to die for.
We saw him the second he sauntered into the door.
The pub would never be the same, he was glamor and more.
A fine dapper Irish cat, who serenaded us with folklore.
He has such fashion sense! The females all cried.
He gave us a stomping dance, a jig, and a slide.
St Patrick’s day cat with coral roses on his lapel.
Showed us the way out of our daily hell-to-hell.
We followed him to Dublin singing an Irish ditty.
The felines all followed, screaming how he was pretty.
St Patrick’s day cat ruined it that day for other Toms.
I did not see him myself, but have heard from his moms.
St Paddy’s day Guinea pig is loud singing again
The foam from his beer is dripping down from his chin
He seems to be a little inebriated, I think I dare say.
He gives me the wing and says “Happy St Paddy’s day!”
Happy St. Froggy’s Day! The space traveler said.
I looked up and stopped eating my Irish soda bread.
It’s St. Froggy’s day, right? The alien said confidently.
That’s when I knew he had not learned enough from his TV.
It’s St. Paddy’s day, not St. Froggy’s day, I said, grabbing a beer.
He walked over, trying to fit in, and sat down, uncomfortably near.
Trying to pretend he was from this planet, but I knew he was not.
Or else he was an eejit; I turned away from the misinformed snot.
St Paddy’s day elf had a secret pal
He wished it would have been his cousin Al.
It was actually a bunny, which was kind of weird.
For when he thought of the rodent, it appeared.
You must be magic, he said, leprechaun-like, right?
The bunny held on to his leg, and he held on tight.
It was difficult to sneak a gift to the little guy.
He shows up day and night the elf said with a sigh.
Erin’s face looks like a map of Ireland, I was told.
She had ginger hair with slivers of dashing gold.
Her eyes were as green as the Emerald Isle.
And she lit up Dublin with her darling smile.
Many chased her in a merry happy fun-loving way.
She was gorgeous, funny, and always gay.
Her famous corn beef and cabbage was the best around.
Her tasty shepherd’s pie was devoured to the ground.
Shamrock twins argued about this and that
They argued as to if a dog was a hog
Or a cat was a bat
On Halloween they were disagreeable to a masterful degree
They put spells on each other’s jack-o-lanterns
They put spiders in each other’s tea
Their favorite holiday was St. Patrick’s Day
with green mint shakes and pistachio cakes
They argued about this and that
But never about the sanctity of St. Pat
I am dancing with St. Pat the little Dublin girl sang out
Click click click clack her feet clicked over and about.
She was doing a jig, with no training whatsoever.
The rain had stopped, it was turning to good weather.
Click click click the shoes sang out, against the floor.
“Erin go braugh!” yelled out the eejit next door.
“Ireland forever!” I yelled back, being neighborly.
The tiny Irish dancer continued jigging it with glee.
Here comes a bit of blarney for you
I looked up and saw the boy named Stew
He was known for tall tales and lies.
One of those entertaining Irish guys.
Saw Johnny Cash at the pub just now.
He rode in on a donkey, or maybe a cow.
This was the tamest tale that he told.
Next he said he had found the leprechaun’s gold.
His tales were getting a bit better every year.
This was said by my aunt with the magic mirror.
See you later, said Stew, got to go to the parade.
“In Dublin probably!” yelled out the upstairs maid.
Johnny Cash came out of the tavern then.
He gave Stew a tweak under his chin.
Let’s go get that gold, so we can get to Dublin, okay?
The rest of us were totally blown away.
If there was a competition for prettiest girl
Bonnie would probably win it, look at her curl!
Ginger curl laid on her forehead with a swirl.
St Paddy Day speaker gave his girl a quick twirl.
Colleen is riding a pipe to Dublin town.
She’s dressed in the greens, wearing a gown.
I wonder if she will ride the pipe to me? Asked a clown.
The rest of us stared at him, one gave him a frown.
The news went through the pub, to everyone around.
Colleen is riding a pipe to Dublin, is she quite sound?
I decided to have more shepherd pie and stick around.
Colleen’s arrival was announced at midnight by a hound.
Of course she would arrive on St. Patrick’s Day!
We surrounded the pipe and whisked Colleen away.
Her face was a map of Ireland, we invited her to stay.
All of us recognizing a lassie who loved to play!
Click A micka Click a micka slap slap slap
Coletta was clicking out a jig after her nap
She is up on a chair! Her grandma said with alarm.
She is pure Irish, her daddy argued, full of charm.
Click A micka Click a micka slap slide, slide.
Coletta’s moves were more than grandma could abide.
She returned home, fearing the baby would fall off the chair.
She did not of course, for St. Paddy’s Day was in the air.
For a St Patty’s day jig I need a pink pig.
His dog was irritated. His name was Quig.
I can dance a jig, just give me a swig.
His master shook his head, off popped his wig.
I need a jazzy curly-tailed dancer, he said to Quig.
The only one good enough will have to be a pig.
I can dance any way you want; I can do a jig!
I can zag, I can sashay, I can slide, and I can zig
His master took another swig of his cig.
Your ideas are admirable, your loyalty is big.
You go take the test for me tomorrow in trig.
I will be finding a pig to dance the Irish jig.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.