Sunday, March 09, 2008

Poem to St. Paddys

This is my best Sammy Davis, Jr.

You see, that's funny because he's dead and African American and was a glass eye wearer and I am none of of those things! And that's wherein the comedy lies... Oh, me.

I'm sorry, I just get so slap happy when this time of year rolls around. Yes, St. Paddy's Day gets me all giddy-like. Oh, this holiday holds so many fond memories of growing up: friends feasting on corned beef and cabbage, libations flowing like golden showers, spirited renditions of "Macnamara's Band," and my parents being carried out in handcuffs on trumped up drunk & disorderly charges. I will always treasure those memories.

This time of year fills me with such glee. However, it also makes me aware of the fact that since My Happiness quotient is so high, I may be stealing from World Happiness, and for that I feel a little bad. Given my Catholic upbringing, Guilt requires that I offer something back to World Happiness. My offering? A Poem to St. Paddys.

A Poem to St. Paddys
St Paddy's comes but once a year,
The Church made it the 15th and I think that's queer.
For everyone knows its the 17th of March,
But no matter, by Saturday, no doubt I'll be parch'd.

A time to gather round the piano both young and old,
and sing silly ditties with voices loud and quite bold.
To hover over plates filled with stewed cabbage and corned beef,
As plastic leprechauns frolic 'round a quite festive motif.

It's that one day where everyone dons green,
and buries that impulse to be vindictive and mean.
For we recollect on St. Patrick, as he is the reason,
why poseurs get shitfaced and act like asses this season.

As I grow older, these traditions I'll always hold dear,
But perhaps I might do some things different this year.
Throw away all the corned beef, good will and that crap,
And hunker down with a 40, some porn and a nap.

When a holiday's named after you, then all must agree,
that a sense of humility and modesty's the key.
If you know me at all, you know that's not likely to happen,
So spring for a stripper and have her dance on my lap 'en!

I hope that this poem makes you all giddy,
So go get hammered, meet a lady and go make a kiddy.
For I wish you nothing but good imbiment and cheer,
My name is Patrick Garrigan, and I don't care for liver.

Yeah, eat your heart out Yeats. So maaaaaybe the ending needs work, but my mom used to always make me eat liver and I really didn't like it and I felt that needed to be addressed.

Anyway, I hope you have a delightful St. Paddy's. You've been working hard at whatever it is you do. And if you haven't been working hard, get cracking, we're in a recession, people! Sláinte!

Death Done Irish-Style

PS- This is what we Irish think happens right before you die, courtesy of Darby O'Gill & The Little People.

Not even joking -that Banshee seriously scares the shit out of me to this day. Which is why I always carry around a gas lantern.

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