The Story

of The Emerald Isle

'Tis a world of the "The", so it is,
Ireland, whose people detest 
"The English", bade their sons
be prepared to be prepared to die
for The Homeland, where the fathers
are given to relishing The Drink,
are also hopelessly addicted to
The Dole, yet breed incessantly,
adore their lovely wee bairns
and weep inconsolably when they
die of neglect, malnutrition and
disease, constantly afflicted by the
ravages of The Hunger, but for those
who escape early death and become
besotted with The Church in whose
name Catholics and Protestants
detest The Other.  And did we 
mention atall, atall, did we now,
the priceless gift of The Gab?  
Och, now, did we overlook the
good fortune to be born among
The Irish, and not to spurn The 
Shamrock?  Have a thought, now,
will  ye, for The (angelic) Bairns,
honour The Gaelic, and pledge
never to forget The Troubles.
Saint Patrick, bless him, also
blesses Ireland.  To The Confessional,
ye sinners!  Take the (consecrated)
Host, me son; recall, above all,
The pitiless Famine and be secure
in the knowing The Heavenly Father
rules His dominion on high, smiling
on The Irish Eyes.  Och, aye, 'tis
The Song and The Dance of it all!

To Frank McCourt, with great respect and admiration.