He’s one of the Flaherty, Braugh
O’ Dea, O’ Dell, bumper-sticker bearing
T-shirt wearing imported from Ireland
assembled in America proud-to-be
Celtic tattooed crowd.
He’s crazy about The Quiet Man with its
sod roof cottages and he’s crazy about Fiona:
chestnut curled, ivy-eyed Fiona with a
Green Isle sized rock on her finger.
As we hail them to their honeymoon
I say, “Be sure to kiss the Blarney Stone!”,
knowing at night Irish kids
piss on the Blarney Stone.
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Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words
