One for the Snakes
Padraig got himself a Day.
Well, good on him, I say.
Except that the Teachers, the Lawmen, the Judges and the Priests
Got shoved off cliffs to make room
For his Day.
Which is not quite so Okay.
T'was a long time ago,
We do have to say,
And snakes go underground well enough, can't they?
They can keep to the shadows at need,
And feed on vermin, secrets, and opportunities.
And shed their skins again and again
Until the scales are no darker than any other freckle
You pass in the square on any other day.
They taught, these snakelings, their young to pray
Recite Rosary and read the Oghm through the same flickering tongues,
To and sketch the Bride's glyph in the fireplace ash, and leave fresh milk at the step by way
of the unseen twilight mystery's pay
To speak the Oath Perilous with the selfsame tongue
That smiles and shakes the new Priest's hand on Sunday.
So it's not so much that the snakes were driven out, really
As that they married in the back way;
Brought their family plate and sacred linens to the hearth,
Brought their best songs and fighting spirit to the field,
Brought their Ways and Means to the farm and foundary,
And brewed their Witcheries and Uiskes in cellars and sheds down the woodside
Then serve it all up with a sidelong smile
On Saint Patrick's day.
Slainte!
Happy boozin for those who fancy it! Happy singin' to those who're booked tonight. Happy green-wearin to those who remembered the date BEFORE they got dressed this morning. Happy Cultural Heritage Event to those with Eire in their blood, and Happy Cultural Heriage Incursion to those who partake of Irish-by-association for this 24 hours of the year.
Don't let the poem fool you; I like it just fine.
Not a fan of Padraig, but the day's always been a hoot, and the Irish have been shoved down enough over the years, I can't begrudge them a moment of today's inherent and inveterate uppitiness. They've earned the right, after all, and the rest of us can just shut up and suck down the (Black, NOT green, dammit!) beer.
And if a few people get extra pinches for singing YET ANOTHER round of Danny Boy... well, every booze up needs a piss up to go with, donnit? Heave to, and mind the schelalighs!
Well, good on him, I say.
Except that the Teachers, the Lawmen, the Judges and the Priests
Got shoved off cliffs to make room
For his Day.
Which is not quite so Okay.
T'was a long time ago,
We do have to say,
And snakes go underground well enough, can't they?
They can keep to the shadows at need,
And feed on vermin, secrets, and opportunities.
And shed their skins again and again
Until the scales are no darker than any other freckle
You pass in the square on any other day.
They taught, these snakelings, their young to pray
Recite Rosary and read the Oghm through the same flickering tongues,
To and sketch the Bride's glyph in the fireplace ash, and leave fresh milk at the step by way
of the unseen twilight mystery's pay
To speak the Oath Perilous with the selfsame tongue
That smiles and shakes the new Priest's hand on Sunday.
So it's not so much that the snakes were driven out, really
As that they married in the back way;
Brought their family plate and sacred linens to the hearth,
Brought their best songs and fighting spirit to the field,
Brought their Ways and Means to the farm and foundary,
And brewed their Witcheries and Uiskes in cellars and sheds down the woodside
Then serve it all up with a sidelong smile
On Saint Patrick's day.
Slainte!
Happy boozin for those who fancy it! Happy singin' to those who're booked tonight. Happy green-wearin to those who remembered the date BEFORE they got dressed this morning. Happy Cultural Heritage Event to those with Eire in their blood, and Happy Cultural Heriage Incursion to those who partake of Irish-by-association for this 24 hours of the year.
Don't let the poem fool you; I like it just fine.
Not a fan of Padraig, but the day's always been a hoot, and the Irish have been shoved down enough over the years, I can't begrudge them a moment of today's inherent and inveterate uppitiness. They've earned the right, after all, and the rest of us can just shut up and suck down the (Black, NOT green, dammit!) beer.
And if a few people get extra pinches for singing YET ANOTHER round of Danny Boy... well, every booze up needs a piss up to go with, donnit? Heave to, and mind the schelalighs!
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