Born upon St Patrick’s Day,
she never told me one of his
would come to take her love away.
’Twas never written. Now it is.

Irishmen have made me laugh
and I’ve retold those jokes, although,
on England’s and my own behalf,
I’m sorry now I mocked them so.

I always knew the angels bless
and muses prompt the Irish voice
(viz Yeats, O’Casey, GBS,
Sam Beckett, Oscar Wilde, James Joyce).

And in those Irish eyes there shine
a verdant light and em’rald sheen
which travels over brook and brine
and fain would turn the dull world green;

and Ireland’s peaty, fertile land
from Malin down to Dursey Head
is richer, now that her fair hand
unto his swarthy one is wed.

O, lucky man! He’ll never moan!
Since he has given her his oath
He need not kiss that famous stone.
His bride will talk enough for both!

Dear, GM, one word of advice:
her hunger for men’s ears is such,
your left alone, will not suffice;
she’ll bend the right one just as much.

You’ll have them bashed with searing sound
But don’t be told you’re always wrong.
Be frank and stand your righteous ground.
(On second thoughts, just play along.)

But JD, sometimes give him pause
whether your chat is cheese or chalk,
The Irishman, yes even yours,
occasionally, likes to talk.

My “talking thing”, my erstwhile dame
convinced me she’d be always “Mizz”.
Well, now a contract bears her name.
’Twas never written. Now it is.