I wasn’t Irish but I knew the tune –

my winter coat I shed -

for it was neigh the 10^th of June

at least so in my head.

I’d shut off thoughts of winter squalls -

several months too soon -

now I.V. drips through sterile halls

here in the month of June.

It’s where I died of coughing fits

they dug the Earth unfroze -

and wedged me in a long pine box

so slight it pinched my toes.

I wasn’t Irish but had the flair

to tip a pint of Stout -

and knew my Pals would after dark

show up to dig me out.

For pickled all these many years

one foot upon the rail –

no snivel gets the best of me

while still a pint of Ale.

I rose and shook this death away

and with my Pals did flee -

for though I am not Irish

the tune it knows of me.

Zobostic Corwin

Zobostic - Left 2 Write