Irish Car Bomb by Jim BenzGo call them out, the Dubliners
And say you pour
The rich black stream whose brogue is worn
On cobblestones and blackthorn soles
O hurry to this darkened drink
O hurry you to St. James Gate
And yet when Mr. Guinness shows
But half his face, we see a measure
Of the swarthy man
Still half, but waiting for his kin
And yet another frothy sip to sit astride
Another glass to measure out
His barley sin
A small plain cup across
The table square, within burns fire
Lit for blackened Irish seas
In glass, and yet but filled to half
This Jameson man awaits his bride
From Bailey clan, who spreads so wide
Her silken milk-maid knees
Now, spirits, mingle in your lust
I pray, confront the sturdy man
With smilish ways, beneath the drunken stare
He lingers cold, still half a measure
Yet untold, and still the swarthy man awaits
Menage a trois at St. James Gate 01/17/2006 Posted on 01/17/2006 Copyright © 2024 Jim Benz
Member Comments on this Poem |
Posted by Soulo Jacob Bourgeau on 01/17/06 at 06:06 AM Sounds like a fine highball, mate. I'll buy the next round. |
Posted by Jersey D Gibson on 01/17/06 at 03:30 PM Blarney stone, anyone?
yer pal
Jersey |
Posted by Elizabeth Jill on 01/17/06 at 05:29 PM i have saint'ly decided to begin my first pint of th'day, as fly th'uncivilized an' much welcome grogs at this great poem, write to m'gate. [ say g'day to st. james for ye, I will! ]
—x'lent, Jim Benz! —Jill ;) |
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