Luck of the Irish |
When luck came up for the cosmic draw Ireland was left with the shortest straw - The Paddies were saddled with Murphy’s Law. Wondrous schemes that were set to fail, Endless spills from the milking pail; A sting in every romantic tale. So when O’Shaunessy found the Grail Hidden behind a harvest bale It split as quick as a fingernail And Father Flaherty at his door Said,’What’s that dirty oul’ piss-pot for? The glue’s not holding - yer’ll need some more.’ He showed his prize to a journalist Who conned it off him when both were pissed And wrote it onto an auction list. Delaney bought it for half a pig Then turned it over to hold his wig Before a jaunt to the hills to dig. His luck was in and he’d done the trig - His Granda’s mattock was in the rig For surely there would be Something Big. His rainbow hung in the mountain mist; He chased, and swore, and he shook his fist - For all that glittered was mica schist. Back in Blarney Delaney kissed The Stone, and took an almighty swig Of moonshine mixed with the local ale; Summoned the pub accordionist To set the mood with a fancy jig And thrilled his pals with a bogus tale Of holy relics and fairy ore. He sold his luck to a hundred more - Till time ran out on the bar-room floor.... |