A Limmerick
There once was a man from Des Moines,
Who kept a glass jar full of coins.
When the Ides did arrive,
His pulse gave a rise,
As it did when presented pork loins.
For on March seventeenth,
There’s stew made of beef,
For Guinness aplenty,
Just five hundred pennies,
Celebratin’ the four-petalled leaf.
At half past eleven,
You’ll think you’re in heaven.
A sea of green clothing,
We’ll England be loathing.
It’s not just the bread t’will be leavened.
Join me at Biddy’s
At Glisan and sixty.
By bus or by car,
It’s not very far.
It’s guaranteed you’ll leave giddy.
If it’s breakfast you crave,
A seat I can save.
I’m eating at Zells
(not that shitty old Kell’s)
Nine-thirty, with your old pal Dave.
A good time I can promise,
In fact, I insist.
We’ll toast Gerry Adams
And Ireland’s madams.
You’re sure to leave pretty pissed.
