I see strapping Irish men, with beer mugs
In their firmly held fists, dancing
By the river Liffey, telling anecdotes on
How they are different from the rest of the world.
How the Talus bone was made for river dancing,
Tapping away, hitting their heels on the firm earth,
And how their four-lobed liver evolved
An extra-degree of horse power,
To become super-efficient at clearing
All kinds of Alcohol and how the conscience,
Was never one to be reckoned with,
When inebriated with a straw-colored drink,
That you lift from your fisted hold,
Cheered on by a fashionable saint, who
Doesn’t’ ask you for any penance.
How Ireland, was built around tradition,
That rock of Catholicism, the idiosyncrasy
Of tap dancing, a spoken form of English,
That sounds like a whole different tongue,
And aggregating to a tavern, like the way,
Creatures of the wild, come together
To a water hole, where anecdotes
Become folklore, just like the legend
Of that man, St Patrick, a forgotten saint,
Who came back in style, and a day
In March, where he lives large, dwarfing the pagans,
Cheered on every time a fisted mug is lifted,
And bridged in custom, to celebrate
The resonance of the human touch.
A kiss, a shoulder, a little clatter
Of beer mugs, those fairy-size traditions,
That lift a nation, and a rainbow that reminds
Every Irish man and woman, that showers of blessings,
Are a mainstay, in this land of the shamrock leaf.
What grew from pagan roots to outlast
A potato famine and a mass migration across the Atlantic,
And still be, even in the contemporary,
The pint-sized leprechaun of Europe.