LEPRECHAUNS

LEPRECHAUNS

I will not write of Killarney,
That beautiful Erin lake,
‘Cause I’d rather write blarney
And make you laugh for Ohara’s sake.

So I’ll write of my Uncle Pat,
Who knew all there was to know.
Born on a farm in Ireland
And in the green grass there did grow.

He claimed he stole from Leprechauns,
Then lived high on each pot of gold
And I believed every word he spoke,
In the dozen’s of stories he told.

He said he went to Dublin and
Drank one of the Pubs there dry,
Said it cost a whole pot of gold,
With no funds he told Dublin goodbye.

On the way home he found a shamrock.
Everyone knows that brings you luck
But Uncle Pat wasn’t just anyone,
Trading the shamrock for a new truck.

When I turned sixteen years old,
I got a suit just like Da and Uncle Pat,
Right down to the black leather boots
And the shiny black belt on my hat.

Uncle Pat never ran out of stories,
They just seemed to go on and on.
‘Tho I know this sounds fictitious,
We’re a family of Leprechauns.


Monty