Sunday, March 12, 2017

Pea(brained) Soup



Aye, me kin come from the Emerald Isle,
I say today with me immigrant smile.
They drank warm suds, ate roasted spuds,
and go by the name oh, oh,
oh, Ryan.

Oh, I hear they told some
 wicked tales,
did stretch the facts, induced each
with barreled pulls of
golden ales.

 (Although, truth be told,
I'm lyin')

Once, fairies danced with
handsome lads-
 they've now banished fags,
from stinking
up the loo-
St. Peter tossed the snakes,
egads!
got rid of men in dreaded drags,
also, banned stinky
mutton stew.

Green shamrock shakes begat,
Mary, Harry, Peter and Seamus.
These Irish eyes, me coal
black hair,
come from me sainted ma's ma's ma-
who bore the pain, she howled through,
without Obamacare.

Lasses then were mighty strong, tis
 hardly, barely screamed,
whilst bearing bairns as big
as barns as inebriated 
fathers beamed.

Then ma's ma's Ma got up to make
 cabbage balls, darn Pa's socks, bake the
sourdough bread.
By twenty-three, with twelve more kids,
 she were most definitely
dead.

I come from the land of screeching pipes,
Oscar Wilde and wild jigs,
pea soup, peat moss, Swift and Joyce,
and flying Irish pigs.

Tho, me home is now the state
of cheddar,
swiss on rye, (it do taste better)
I travel afar in wolfish packs, armored
in me wooly bully,
sheepish sweater.

I sing the song, "Oh, Donny boy,"
whilst M.I.A. from my hometown,
as our cheeky S.O.B.'s G.O.P.
it down-
and we bow our pale skinned heads,
to our short fingered, orange, two faced
clown.

I was born in the land
of opportunity,
where women share
the minority from
lack of wealth
by inequality.

Gahd bless me,
I am Paul.




No comments:

Don't Ask, Do Tell

This little story is so intriguing. A house for sale, plus (read, HERE ) you get the mystery tenant upstairs, and you cannot bother that...