Poems about the modern world, by Lauren Bride.
St. Patrick again has his day,
Upcoming on this Saturday.
It is often abused -
May I please be excused?
Or just sink myself in Georgian Bay?
Hell’s Kitchen is far in New York,
Though for one day, everyone’s an O’Rourke.
What harm could it be?
Leprechauns, céilidhs, And the freedom to be a drunk dork?
And no broken nose from a stranger,
Who might clean your clock,
Steal your shamrock,
Dispose of your corpse in a manger.
The green beer could be quite becoming,
Trickling down chins while it’s numbing
The rest of the person,
Who is bettered and worsened,
Later unwell, harming plumbing.
Who moved here for something to do.
He was hoping for snow,
Disappointed, he’ll go,
Though he quite liked Erin Go Brew.
Maybe this year, you’ll be granted,
With a comatose kid so enchanted,
That he or she
Just had to be
Face down by your doorstep, and pants-ed.
All in good fun, je comprends.
You can’t really help how you’re spawned.
It’s only genetic,
But I find it emetic.
Because I’m too strawberry-blond.
Lauren Bride is a writer, among other things.