St Patrick’s Day


March becomes the march,
Called a crawl, a long pub crawl.
How bellies distend to beer-bellies
In one night of frolicking fun.
How a country of Catholics,
Share the Eucharist of French Fries
And draught beer, and that day,
That transcends to the next one,
Spanning past midnight, when
You find storytellers, relaying anecdotes
That enrich a night, belonging to a saint
Called Patrick. How easy for a man,
To stay on a stool, and glug, mug after mug of beer,
While the blurred world
He inherits, becomes a little
Escapade to the afterlife of inebriation,
When the legacy of floral hops,
Transforms to the complete
Opposite, how a simple tradition
Of getting drunk on a straw-colored drink,
Makes the perennially bitter,
For a brief moment in time,
Hedonically sweet.

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