The Irish adore a wordsmith
Yeats and Joyce and Goldsmith
“On the stage he was natural affecting
T’was when he was off it, he was acting’
The Irish get sick, like the rest of us,
They work hard dealing with the pus
That exudes from the pores they don’t talk about
Relying on the Church’s redoubt
But our friends from that country all say
They have good words to save the day
From head to toe and the Irish guile
They treat their maladies with style
A sewing ring of Dingle
For hearts that mingle
The Roscommon cold
Attacks all but the bold
The Baysian side of Galway
So the statisticians say
For those who burn
On the screes of Burren
Does the Book of Kells
Address the palsy of Bells
Can the sights of Kinsale
Compete with Mary’s hails
Those who are barren
Love the Isle of Arran
For those who are profligate
London’s clinics await
The trehalose of Tralee
Rose’s chemistry
Gall Stones of Killarney
The bile of the Blarney
From Dublin to Belfast
Politicians at last
Show actions speak louder than words
Leading from the front, not behind the herds
Paisley and Adams shake hands
Assuaging the memory of Sands
Of time when the Bogside ruled
And all but the brave were fooled
The Irish malady put to rest,
Replaced by the bankers fest.
